


A Merciless Light

by Gilded_Pleasure



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Avoidance, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Cute, Developing Friendships, Disillusionment, Drug Use, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, Feelings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intimacy, Introspection, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Offstage, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Season/Series 03, Self-Reflection, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Relationships, Sherlock-centric, Virgin Sherlock, justifications, self-awareness, sherlock alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilded_Pleasure/pseuds/Gilded_Pleasure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Why does anyone do anything?</em><br/>Despite their best efforts, people change. They grow apart, they <em>leave</em>. Sometimes they go to extremes to remain strangers to themselves. People can die before they realize how much they've lost...they have to see the light before they realize they had anything to lose.<br/>Sometimes the only way you can save someone is by losing them.<br/>I've lost you so many times. And where does the light go when its conductor abandons it? It goes wherever there's darkness. We both know where the darkness is. <em>Here be dragons</em>, John. And when the light tears its way inside, you have no choice but to <em>see</em>.<br/>And once you've seen what you are, you have a choice to make. You have to change yourself, no matter how painful it is; you give people you love something to lose, and you let them save you.</p><p>Or you let the light burn the heart out of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For The Occasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Why does anyone do anything? ___  
> I felt like a strange balloon, filled with light (and sick- _no, wait_ \- ignore that), dying to pop. Sherlock Holmes had come back to London, the very stones and bones of the city thrumming under my shoes, and I danced out its music through the dining room, taking what I needed and deflecting any who challenged my passage. The perfect attire for every occasion would coalesce into my hands from the fabric of London itself.
> 
> Let's see how John likes looking down the barrel of a damned _mustache_. Let's see how John likes finding out that _people change_.  
> 

It wasn't until I saw the mustache that it even occurred to me what I'd done.

* * *

Mycroft was positively glowing in his chair, self-congratulatory pleasantries dropping like diamonds from his smirk.

“Anyway, you're safe now.”

I hated this. Did I hate this? I hated being beaten bloody, of course; inexpertly tortured by appalling amateurs due to my own miscalculations, but I hated being reminded of being so very (and so obviously) in _need_ of rescue even more. The fact that I'd accepted his...help...should have been admission enough that I'd gotten worn down, out of my depth, and may needed a bit of assistance walking after being kept chained and awake for days, but honestly. I _hurt_.

He looked even more superior, if that was even possible. "A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss."

I glanced down at him and growled, "What for?"

He replied, getting annoyed now ( _good_ ), "For _wading in_. In case you’d forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu. "

I leaned up with a groan, every muscle shrieking at me like an abscessed tooth.

“Wading in?” As if I didn't know precisely how this was going to go already. As if we haven't had versions of this conversation dozens of times. Hundreds. “You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp!”

Mycroft's smug expression creased into an insultingly affected frown. “I got you out.”

Typical. I leaned forward, the fragrance of shaving soap overwhelming my usual olfactory insight into the situation. I'd been more or less shaven already, and I'd had quite enough of my face being touched by now; I was beginning to feel at a disadvantage in my formerly prone position. One can hardly have an enjoyable argument while lying down. Being unable to needle Brother Dear for the length of time since he'd had his last cigarette, the telling ghost of tobacco possibly wafting from those ridiculous lapels obfuscated by Penghalion's Sartorial, was also irritating me. Was it really so terribly important that no one smoke in the safehouses? Nicotine patches would have been an additional annoyance considering I'd come in moderately battered, but if there had been any maybe that would have been fine after all. And, well. I _hurt_.

I locked eyes with him, grimacing, “No, _I_ got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?” I could have wished that last had ended on a less plaintive note.

Mycroft tilted his head in the infuriating manner he generally uses when lecturing me on the uselessness of stating the obvious to him. “I couldn't risk giving myself _away_ , could I? It would’ve ruined everything.” I found myself mirroring his head tilt, and spoke on his heels, purring dangerously, “You were enjoying it.”

Mycroft didn't even bother to fake outrage. “Nonsense.”

I tilted my head, feeling my lacerated back protest the movement yet again. I put some disgust into my voice. Popped the consonants for effect.

“ _Def_ initely. En _joy_ ing. It.”

Better. I rolled my eyes but smiled to myself; I'd scored one on him at least. We continued to bicker comfortably, and I decided I could, just possibly, stand to be shaved a bit closer after all. I was surprised to realise I'd...missed him. His stupid face, his stupid voice, and his stupid superior intellect. I was beginning to look more myself under the straight razor, and Mycroft's backhanded compliments (colossal? Ha! He didn't know _the half_ ) were making me feel more myself. And less a bag of offal, filled to the brim with meat-ends and broken glass.

The timely arrival of a fresh suit of clothes to my specifications was another reassurance that things were, as they had always been before, precisely where I had left them. London has a way of preserving itself for those who truly love it, considering it has endured for centuries despite us all. Easy enough to shove the last two years off a kind of mental cliff, everything worthwhile strained out and sorted, cataloged, and neatly put away into its place.

It was time to go home.

* * *

I admired myself in the mirror, turning this way and that to see how the shirt had been taken in to allow for the old transport growing a bit leaner since the last time I'd worn it. Mycroft of course was still nattering at me, something dire I'm sure, a pleasant enough background buzz to the rush of pleasure I felt at wearing something I'd actually choose to have against my skin, given the option. Mycroft's attaché was speaking and I answered without thinking; all I could think of at that moment was my heightened awareness of every second that existed between now and running up the stairs to my flat on Baker Street, throwing myself onto the couch, and having Mrs. Hudson make a decent cup of tea and maybe toast as well.

_John._

I tried to settle my jacket more comfortably around my rather abused upper body and asked, “And what about John Watson?”

I darted by eyes at Mycroft and Anthea looking at each other in the mirror, who knows why. “Have you seen him?”

Anthea handed me the file.

Ohhhh. That won't do at all.

_Oh, no._

Mycroft's voice sounded far away. All I could see was how old John looked. How sad. How... _changed_ .

It had been two years. And John Watson was not where I left him. He had been in London, safe, sound, and packed away with the rest of the flat while I worked to eliminate the threat of being associated with the now-deceased, slandered yet vindicated, Sherlock Holmes. Unacceptable. I pursed my lips at the hideous evidence before my eyes that it  _had been two years and John Watson had changed_ . I may have muttered, “Well, we'll have to get rid of  _that_ .”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, blinking superciliously. “We?”

I flipped the folder shut, hiding the despicable evidence of how John Watson had betrayed my efforts on his behalf. “He looks _ancient_ ,” I grumbled. “I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.”

* * *

John Watson. Always so happy to see me. From the day we met, he managed to surprise me. Such a prickly (downright  _hostile_ , sometimes; very charming, that) man to offer unqualified praise so freely...when he felt it was deserved. I suppose I could thank the military for that, if I were inclined to thank institutions, or individuals, now that I think on it, for anything under any circumstances. To meet someone who, although ordinary in many ways, can properly appreciate what it is to feel, to witness, to engage with being  _able to do_ what others can't. Well. To be very, very good at something, at least. 

And while I certainly hadn't fooled myself regarding what he was really after in his... _willingness_ to associate with the likes of Sherlock Holmes (not merely his eagerness to shoot a man dead in cold blood for someone he barely knew, but his willingness to lie and laugh about it immediately afterwards). But I knew that he  _knew_ me. 

I could recall with a certain fondness how any time I remembered to look toward him, his eyes were on me. Waiting for the call, for something terrible to happen, something unforeseen, dangerous, and possibly uncomfortable but never boring. Anything to avoid being  _bored_ . The delightful way he gave lip service to propriety from one side of his mouth and unforgivable, unimaginable permission from the other. Even after years of near constant interaction, I still was left guessing which of his boundaries were real, and to what degree he preferred them to be pushed, which ones should be shattered, and which merely teased at. How he could say  _no_ so many times, and yet he had never refused me a single solitary thing to my recollection. What a puzzle of a man. What a delight.

I couldn't wait to see his face.

I continues to dress and smiled half to myself, half to Mycroft. 

“I think I'll _surprise_ John, he'll be _delighted_.” 

Mycroft muttered; I wasn't listening. I couldn't help but admit to myself that I hadn't looked forward to  _seeing someone_ in....well. 

“Hmm. I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows, jump out of a cake.”  
Mycroft was still going, I suppose, but then something caught my ear. 

"Baker Street? He isn’t there any more.”  
_Wait._

_What?_   
“Why _would_ he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”  


_Wait._

First the mustache, then... I scoffed, “ _What_ life? I’ve been away.”  


Mycroft, the filthy thing, was _rolling his eyes_ at me.  


I was starting to draw some rather unfortunate conclusions.

“Where’s he going to be tonight?”  
Mycroft sighed, “How would _I_ know?”  
“You _always_ know.”  
“He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion ... though I prefer the 2001.”

  
_It had been two years._

John Watson was no longer at Baker street.

I give myself proper credit for having learned to control my face under...unpleasant circumstances. I realized I had been stroking my own upper lip, thinking of that abomination on the face of John Watson and what it _meant_ , and in a controlled motion that hopefully went unnoticed by Mycroft (it hadn't, damn) removed my idiot fingers from my face. I blithely informed Mycroft, “I think maybe I’ll just drop by.”  
Mycroft, that pig, was still _telling_ me things I knew. “You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.”  
This bickering was becoming decidedly less comfortable than it had been earlier, but I'd be damned if Mycroft was going to observe one iota more of my discomfort than he already had. After all, a mistake admitted is always a mistake compounded.

“Now, where it is?”

“What?”

I exhaled impatiently through my nose. “You _know_ what.”  
Happily, Anthea took the moment to bring in my Coat. I couldn't stop myself from smiling a bit at the sight of it. After my extended ablutions I was feeling quite back to my old self, stiffness and pain aside (and ignored for the moment). Of course I began to think of The Woman, whose meticulous and discriminating skill for choosing the most proper attire for every situation was the only I'd seen to rival my own. If we _are_ what we do (our work), as she is and as I am, then what we choose to appear as is also what we _become_ , after all.  
Anthea spoke as if from my own lips. “Welcome back, Mr Holmes.”

John had believed I was dead for the past two years. And sometimes, well. I become distracted. And I'd had quite a lot to be distracted by. Thinking of The Woman, I began to also think of the last time a certain John Watson had given me a beating...two, actually, the one I'd asked for as well as the one I'd earned. It would seem I'd earned a third, and along with allowing that to happen, I should consider offering up some kind of explanation.

John had always loved my explanations, mouth open and hanging on every word, thrilling at how I always seem to do the impossible, which he would see for himself if he would only  _think_ . That was it, then. The full explanation. The perfect gift to bring my blogger, upon my miraculous arrival back from the dead.  
I smiled, confident that this could all be smoothed over, although my already-thrashed shoulders, back, and midsection were't going to be pleased with the anticipated festivities soon to be visited upon them. I smirked as I preened at myself, and glanced under my lashes at Mycroft.

“Thank you ...” Feeling positively whimsical, I remembered how much research I'd done into women's cosmetics, hair products and arrangements, after The Woman had thought to stump me at our first meeting with complete nudity. I have to admit I'd been remiss and was resoundingly corrected for my error. I now knew knew her “battle dress” had consisted of various expensive and somewhat arcane creams, liquids, powders, including the perfect lip shade for going into Battle, as I found myself now. The perfect pun. I completed my turn towards Mycroft and shone my confidence full-force into his hateful, precious face. “...blood.”

_Blud._

_Brother._

I only had need of John Watson's well-timed punch to the mouth to complete my ensemble.

And then, oh. The Game, as they say. Would be.  _On_ .  
* * *

When I saw his face across the interior of the restaurant, it seemed the punch I'd anticipated, almost with relish, was unexpectedly delivered to my gut. There he sat, the candlelit clot, with that hair people told themselves was blonde (light brown hair with grey in it appears progressively more blonde as the grey hairs become more numerous. Common enough and deceptively softening his apparent age if it weren't for that hideous Thing he'd grown on his upper lip. Surprising what people think they see with their dull eyes, their faulty memories, like the idiot journalists who seem to believe  _my_ hair is  _black_ . Absurd. It's perfectly, obviously reddish-brown, auburn-to-aubergine, and rather more suits my complexion.) He was nervous. Touching his lapel. A box with a ring in it. Someone was coming to join him, of  _course_ , stupid, stupid. John was about to propose marriage to...someone. 

_Two years-_

Nevermind. I exhaled shakily- ( _what? Why would I_ )

The plan formed, and my whimsy from earlier returned in a heady rush. I felt like a strange balloon, filled with light (and sick-no, wait- _ignore that_ ), dying to pop. Sherlock Holmes had come back to London, the very stones and bones of the city thrumming under my shoes, and I danced out its music through the dining room, taking what I needed and deflecting any who challenged my passage. The perfect attire for every occasion would coalesce into my hands from the fabric of London itself.

John looked far too sad. Smaller than I remembered him, somehow. I always told him that he sees but he does not  _observe_ , well. I'd give him something he could see through, that anyone could see through! A simple puzzle to solve for an ordinary intellect. Tie, glasses, menu,  _wait_ ...perfect. Like something off a show. Cosmetics again, peeking out of a woman's purse. Perfect, perfect. Let's see how  _John_ likes a looking down the barrel of a damned  _mustache_ . Let's see how John likes finding out that  _people change_ .

I leaned over him in my silly disguise, perfect lines of inane patter pouring out of my lips in a ridiculous accent. He even  _smells_ different, wait. No, the same. But different. Not like Baker Street. He's moved. He's changed his deodorant. Vile cheap stuff, he could afford better. The light shimmered and flickered in the restaurant, the chatter of people eating, clinking, speaking, making disgusting noises with their mouths. What is John saying? It doesn't matter.  _Why isn't he seeing_ ?

Disgusted, I whirled away to collect myself. I am back and he is supposed to  _look_ at me. But instead, he's looking at the ring, the one in the box he's keeping in his coat, keeps taking out, keeps touching.

Then I saw her.

I saw him see her. But I...

London was warping around me, twisting into an unfamiliar shape, playing an unfamiliar music. I heard what they said, what she said. The best thing that could have happened to him. But, no I was full of light ( _sick_ ), and hell if I wasn't putting myself out a bit at this point to impress John Watson, the _same_ John Watson, mustache be damned. I leaned over the table with the bottle of wine I'd brought. Time to get this farce over with.

“Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking. It ’as all the qualities of the old, with some of ze colour of the new...”

The twat is is trying to interrupt me again but I barrel right over him.  
“...Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers … suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend.”

  
_Then_ he saw me. I wasn't expecting the pang I felt in my chest at the sight of recognition in his eyes. Actually, I wasn't expecting to feel what was happening to my face, whatever expressions might have been creeping over it. So I spoke instead.

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters.”

The balloon didn't pop. It completely, utterly deflated.

I'd left John safe in London two years ago. He was supposed to stay there until I came back, until I needed him again. I'd left him....here...

I'd.

_Left._

Him.

John shook as he stood up abruptly from the table. He fixed his eyes on me in a way I'd...well, I don't think I'd seen him look at me before, surely, that vile Thing on his face accusing me and I realized that if nothing else, well, I certainly had an  _explanation_ to offer....

“Short version? Not dead.”

Odd. I couldn't feel my face at all.

The way John was staring at me... It wasn't the way I remembered. And not speaking. John isn't Mycroft. I suppose I forget that sometimes.

“Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence,” oh god, I'd gone shrill now, “it was very funny.”

I laughed through the vomit trying to rise up in my throat. “Okay, not a great defence.” The woman at the table ( _blond, trim, pretty, of an age with john_ -what name had I heard?  _Mary_ ) Mary was taking this a bit better than good old Doctor Watson. 

“Oh, no, you're-” she gobbled.  


Maybe she wasn't taking so well as I'd thought. Well, at least she'd spoken to me. Of course she knew who I was.

I replied tersely, “Oh, yes.” I wanted to keep her talking. To still the panic-no, what?-the _panic_ I felt rising in my already-battered gut.

She sputtered out, “Oh, my God.”  
Ha. “Not quite.”  
“You died. You jumped off a roof.”  
“No.”  
“You’re _dead_!”  
I'd genuinely almost forgotten that part. I mean, of course I was _dead_ , that was the whole point, but still-

“No. I’m quite sure. I checked. Excuse me.”

I'd made an ass of myself, which generally didn't give me much pause and of course it wasn't bothering me now I was perfectly fine other than  _I had to get this stupid fucking cosmetics off my face before I started screaming-_

I rubbed it off with a damp napkin and John still was staring, shaking, hadn't said a word so I asked, hoping he'd say something finally, “Does yours rub off too then?” and that's when I saw that John wasn't _just_ angry with me. Anger is what I heard in Mary's voice when she cried, “Oh my God, oh my God. Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done to him? ”

And that was when I realized, I hadn't. Hadn't known. That perhaps I'd broken something I couldn't fix just by being  _better_ or doing _what I do_ , and I blinked past what seemed to me a hundred better ways I could have done, well. This. Or perhaps even before this. A mistake admitted....

“Okay, John, I’m suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology.”

My startle reflexes had been damped almost entirely by having spent a few days being beaten at random intervals with a metal bar and other makeshift clubs, because John had just driven his fist into the table with such force and suddenness that I may have embarrassed myself with something undignified, otherwise. As it was, my mouth fell open a bit and I drew back from the violence I  _had_ been expecting...just sooner. Or later? I wasn't sure anymore.  


Then he tried to speak, and it got even worse. Words came out, sounds....unacceptable sounds were coming out of this man, whose resilience I'd never previously doubted for a moment. Broken noises.

“Two years.”

A sickened whisper.

“Two years. I thought ...” He groaned inarticulately.

“I thought ... you were dead. Hmm? Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?”  
I was going to vomit. I had to stop him from saying these things.

_How?_

His voice filled with that soft, broken noise again and he whispered, “ _How_ ?”

And that is when I remembered that John is not a man of words, he is a man of action. Of violence. Of boundaries that need to be pushed. And so I finally remembered  _how_ .

“Wait – before you do anything that you might regret ...” the groans again, I had to make that stop, right now,” ... um, one question. Just let me ask one question. Um ...” I forced a sick giggle and indicated that despicable mustache.  
“Are you really gonna keep that?!”

There we are.

He exploded, and then came the third beating, the one I'd earned. Although I must say I didn't expect the man to attempt to throttle me with quite so much enthusiasm as he did, I was glad of it, even as I blacked out a bit when I hit the floor. Glad to get it over with.

Sherlock Holmes had returned to London, and now, so too had John Watson.

* * *

The rest of the night wasn't quite so easy.

John did not appear to be understanding my willingness to explain, after all the trouble I'd gone to to show him what a grand job it had really, truly been. What I wasn't expecting was Mary's help. I quickly began to see why John would have been drawn to her-very bright. Observant. And of course, beautiful, for what that's worth. But then he seemed angry at her, too. First he was angry that other people  _knew_ I'd been not-dead. _Of course they did_ as I'd explained perfectly well. That obvious fact was enough to warrant the punch in the mouth I'd initially expected . 

Add a split lip to the tally, then.

The whole affair was leaving me feeling uncharacteristically shaken. Wrung-out, in fact. I thought I'd understood what John wanted and needed from me, his reason for tolerating my presence as so few did, and now I was beginning to suspect that all of it had gotten entirely away from me. John was only supposed to surprise me when I  _wanted_ to be surprised, when it was interesting, not when I was back, I had returned, and we had a case. I hadn't even gotten to tell him about  _the case!_

Mary at least was an ally against The Mustache. I could have kissed her. Well. Not really. Perhaps.

Anyways, I  _hurt_ . And I was frustrated, and confused-no, not  _confused_ , John was being impossible, and I may have said a few things that came out a bit differently than I meant them to, but damn it to hell, I _know_ John Watson. The case. 

I knew what I had to offer him, what I could give him that no one else could, and so I stopped trying to explain anything and showed my hand.

I know the effect I have on people, and I know the effect I have on John. I leaned in an deepened my voice, meeting his eyes with an enticing (and at this juncture a bit painful with my lip having been smashed apart a bit on my teeth, but the perfect ensemble still) smile through which I murmured, “London is in danger, John. There’s an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help.”

The superfluously mustached and alarmingly uncooperative version of  _my John_ scoffed, “My help?”

Yes, now we were getting somewhere. I moved in for the kill. “You  _have_ missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world-”

The bastard grabbed me by the lapels and actually  _headbutted me in the fucking nose_ .

* * *

The intrusive conceptualization of myself as a bag of offal and broken glass had come back full force, and now it was  _leaking_ . Although I'm well aware that human tear ducts will certainly react to a sharp blow to the nose, I still felt as though they were being a bit...excessive. Insult to injury, really. 

As I stood at the kerb trying to make some sense of the bloody, tearstained mess John had left of my face, I found myself absurdly comforted by Mary's presence at my side. Unfortunately, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. 

“I don’t understand.” 

Ugh, my voice was terrible, should have anticipated the nose would affect it. 

I tried again. “I said I’m sorry. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” 

Now I just sounded approximately four or five years of age and possibly having been recently dispossessed of a toy. I could have wished that my tone did not so accurately reflect my state of mind. The way I must admit I was...feeling. This degree of self-reflection was as unfamiliar as it was appalling. 

Mary looked at me kindly. “Gosh. You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?”

I looked at her then, really looked. The entire night had been unbearable. I got my voice a bit more under my control, to a passably impassive drawl.

“Mmm, nature? No. Human? ... No.”

Then I got the first not-horrible surprise of the entire disastrous evening. Mary directed the full force of her impressively charming smile at me and said, “I’ll talk him round.”

Mary... _ liked _ me.

_ Nobody  _ likes me.

“You will?”

She nodded and said, “Oh yeah.”

Remarkable. Oh, and  _ Clever _ . Liar of course, but not about this. Disillusioned, but not by me. Secrets, but who hasn't got them? Linguist...well, people  _ will _ talk. And something, something else about her. Something missing, or present, something  _ wrong _ about her that allowed her to like me, knowing what she knew and having seen me for herself.

She saw me  _ looking _ , that searching stare that people hate, the one that makes their skin crawl ( _freak!_ ). And she  _ still  _ smiled. She smiled as she turned away, and I felt the warmth of her regard even with her back turned as she walked away to join John in the cab.

As they drove away into the night, I was left with what was perhaps the biggest surprise of all, surpassing the inexplicable fact that the woman John had chosen to keep by him, to marry,  _ liked _ me. 

As I staggered uncomprehendingly away from the most recent disaster I had caused in the life of a certain Doctor John Watson, I realized that  _ I _ liked  _ Mary _ right back.

* * *

I walked, and London slowly started to feel right again. For what had to be the first time I could remember, John Watson had not said no...but he had  _ refused _ me. At some point in the time between my plummet off the roof of Saint Bart's and tonight, the rules had changed. I wasn't ready to go back to Baker Street so soon ( _without John_ ), nor was I particularly in the mood to face what I anticipated would be Mrs Hudson's rather excessive volume levels. A suspicion was stealing over me that it was almost possible that the events of the last two years, and possibly events even longer ago, from before I died, had changed me as well. I'd told John that he was my friend, quite the novelty I'm sure, years ago at Baskerville during a rather prolonged wobbly he insisted on throwing over something unimportant I'd supposedly done or said, who can remember ( _ I can! -shut up John- _ ). But until that very moment it had never occurred to me that I in turn was  _ John's _ friend. 

I didn't know what that meant.

John had broken the rules by changing. But it was also possible that I had broken the rules first, by leaving.

My aching body brought me round as I realized I'd been staring up at the roof of Saint Bart's hospital for quite some time-in fact, 42 minutes precisely. The spot where John had seen me last, before my apparent death on the pavement behind the ambulance bay, where my gory corpse was rolled about by strangers and then promptly carted away. I thought about what John had said at my grave, that I was the best, the wisest...of course I was. Am. That he owed me so much. Debatable, but sentiment always is and I don't truly enjoy arguing all that much with anyone except Mycroft. John had asked me not to be dead, a request I had fulfilled immediately. Well. Not according to him, but I wasn't really dead. And he really  _ would _ have told someone; his life would most likely have been forfeit. Not that it matters. He'd never said we were  _ friends _ , though, not to me. To other people perhaps, but it's not like they count.

The sky was growing light, and I knew two things: how tired I really was, and who I had come to see. My feet knew the path by heart; across the street, in the door, left, up the stairs, right, right, damn this carcass of mine it's the lift today, right, then left along the hallway and yes....she'd just opened her locker at the finish of her shift, at 6:07 am.

“Hello, Molly Hooper.” 

* * *

I was vaguely aware of looking frightful, face a bit bashed and all. I wandered the lab, touching things, adjusting, moving a few slides back to their places. “Got in anything new?” I asked, although I'd already noted at least three upgraded machines and a rather unnecessarily reflective centrifuge (I hadn't got all the blood off after all it seemed), as well as the cleaning staff's neglect of the lower left...nevermind. I was  _ chatting _ . Making an effort. That's how  _ friends _ do, isn't it? They  _ chat _ .

Molly crossed her arms and walked over to where I was attempting to place a slide in its container with shaking fingers. The last time I'd slept was on the plane trip back to London from the location-unknown safehouse (it's in Belarus, obviously), although I'd eaten as well and that seemed fine for now. She took the slide from my hand and put it in its foam slot, each lined up flush with the right side of the box, and covered it with the lid. I looked into the microscope at nothing in particular.

“What happened to your face, Sherlock?”

I would have smiled if it hadn't been painful to do so. “John Watson. Happened to my face.”

She exhaled heavily. Coffee, and a hint of pastry. I looked up, but not at her. Towards the door that led to the hall and down to the room where....

Molly murmured, “I wish you'd let me say something to him. I told you he needed, well, that he  _ should _ know. I imagine he was positively livid.”

I grunted, and then I did smile after all. “Molly, I've ruined everything.”

She was still near me, and I saw her glance at my hand. She reached out and picked it up off the stainless steel counter, and examined my fingernails closely. To be perfectly honest, I'd made a botch of them in my haste to get sorted at the safehouse and hadn't taken the time to properly fix them up after months of being scrupulously unkempt in every way imaginable. She didn't look at my face when she whispered, “Sherlock...do you want to...?”

My breath caught. “You still have it then? All of it?”

She smiled, tremulous and crass at the same time, as only Molly Hooper could.

“Of course, you twit. Who else would use it?”

“I'll meet you there, then?”

“Alright. It'll be just a minute.”

* * *

 


	2. Barefoot in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Why indeed, John?_
> 
> I spoke over a description of- _what?_ -yes, an argument with Tom over who was to do the washing up after dinner. “Molly, the eyes, if you would,” I whispered, trying not to let the words choke me.   
>  My mind tried to worry at it, but instead just coiled and uncoiled loosely around the problem without getting entangled in it. And I didn't care. A tear, how ridiculous, slipped out from under one of my closed lids. “The eyes, please,” a perfectly enunciated yet barely audible whisper from my lips, which would remain dangerously unsealed for the duration. And I _still_ didn't care.

* * *

The morgue hadn't changed at all. Morgues rarely do. I flicked the lights on to an alternate setting that kept the stainless steel surfaces from beaming darts of light into my eyes wherever I looked. The deep sinks yawned cauldron-like in the dim, and the laying-out table shone flatly on its heavy column, which allowed it to be raised and lowered for the convenience of the one doing the postmortems. I pulled a fresh black bodybag from the supplies and then layered a few towels into it, after a moment adding a few more in strategic areas considering my current state.

I heard Molly enter the room carrying the bag (bags, more than one) as I began to strip off, and begin to set up her elevated stool and trays. My shirt hadn't stuck to any of the wounds on my back or shoulders but a bit of blood had seeped through the white fabric ( _ What do you think of this shirt, Mycroft? _ ) in a few spots. Probably where I had hit the floor in the first restaurant. 

Molly never gasped, not over this. She merely held her breath for a count of 10 and then exhaled almost normally. She said quietly, “have you had anything for that, then?” Tactful, I supposed. I finished stripping off my trousers, and put them away as well. “I haven't.” She nodded and continued her setup, filling a basin at one of the sinks, as I lay down in my pants and face up on the slab. “They've done a less than impressive job of my hair, you know. Doesn't take action nearly as well.”

I noticed with an odd pang that she'd removed the engagement ring I'd seen earlier glittering a bit earnestly on her finger, before I realized that of course she'd take it off when she was working. Or, “working”, as it were. Sickened with myself, I tried to sigh through flared nostrils. Mistake. Ouch. Molly noticed, she always notices. I opened my mouth, and she had two pills ready to place on my tongue. The first crumbled to sweetish powder almost immediately; a benzodiazepene, then. The second I swallowed dry, small, harder, a painkiller of some kind. Opioid? Dangerous combination, possibly. But I was so very tired, tired of thinking, tired of  _ seeing _ . Molly watched me swallow the pills and remarked, “we won't be able to do your mouth, you won't be able to breathe with your nose all bashed in like that.” I breathed softly and muttered, “Just the eyes, then.”

I didn't know what proficiency Molly had as a chemist, but she had many skills others took for granted, ignored, or...mocked. And I'd trusted her with my death, why wouldn't I trust her with my life? Or even my hair.

The oddly invasive pain I'd been feeling in my chest for the past twelve hours or so had begun to ease already, which was odd, considering that even on an empty stomach, the drugs hadn't had nearly enough time to begin working through my system. My eyes fluttered closed, and Molly placed a damply warm, wrung flannel on my face, gently dabbing away dried blood with what seemed like infinite patience. Patience to match that of the dead.

* * *

Molly Hooper had grown up in a flat above a mortuary, with bodies of the deceased a part of her life, a part of her family. Death was as familiar to her as a cup of tea, a warm blanket on a rainy day, a hug from a loved one. And she was skilled. Very skilled. She could make a two-week floater appropriate for an open casket, reconstruct a shattered skull, shave, sculpt, and paint the entire decomposing mess up to look as sweet and fresh as a wedding cake. She looked at a mutilated body and saw exactly what had happened to it, what had taken it apart, and knew how to put it all back together into something resembling a human corpse, entire. I'd seen her restore a human hand I'd partially boiled into something any funeral home would be proud to dangle out a stuffed sleeve.

At uni, most had looked down on her “fripperies”, her paints and polishes, the fine tweezers and narrow, sharp scissors, and although her current line of work was prestigious (and lucrative, I imagine), she rarely had the chance or the time to ply her first craft. Her  _ art _ , rather. 

When I'd had questions, her answers had proved...invaluable, but led to more questions. I had cases (or I'd imagined cases and scenarios, but all possibilities prove useful eventually), and she'd been all too willing to mix glues and cosmetics and other...substances that could be tolerated on or in a living body, yet approximated those used on corpses in every other way. Invaluable. I've said that already. I'd demanded the “full treatment” on more than one occasion, although my attempts to coax her into adapting her technique to that of a less skilled practitioner (of which there were far more than the opposite) in the interest of practicality, she'd refused to speak to me or acknowledge my presence for precisely one week.

As time went on, the idea of a strange manicurist, hairstylist, or really anyone not myself or Molly mucking about near my face and hands had become increasingly intolerable, and of course there were always experiments, body parts to pick up, and more questions. Besides, Miss Hooper had an eye for detail in this instance that I had to admit was unrivaled. It had been two years since I'd been laid out properly on Molly's slab, but I still felt rather at home there.

* * *

As Molly finished her careful cleaning of my face and ears, she began to speak casually as she had become accustomed to do when I was there like this, whether or not my mouth had been glued shut already or not. Work gossip, her new fiancee, her cats and neighbors, all things I let wash over me without really listening, like the corpse I assumed I resembled. The drugs had begun cutting their way through the knot in my chest, although they also seemed to be forcing it up into my throat, where a lump was forming.

I spoke over a description of- _what?_ -yes, an argument with Tom over who was to do the washing up after dinner. “Molly, the eyes, if you would,” I whispered, trying not to let the words choke me. Molly paused for a moment and replied, “If you're sure you'll be able to turn over. I've still not done the back of you.” My body felt strangely loose-a muscle relaxant then?-no, the pain would have been worse if that had been the case with the second pill. My mind tried to worry at it, but instead just coiled and uncoiled loosely around the problem without getting entangled in it. And I didn't care. A tear, how ridiculous, slipped out from under one of my closed lids. “The eyes, please,” a perfectly enunciated yet barely audible whisper from my lips, which would remain dangerously unsealed for the duration. And I _still_ didn't care.

She pressed a dry flannel to my face in a businesslike manner so the glue would adhere to it. I felt her gloved thumb rub over my eyelids gently but firmly, sealing them with the mixture she'd invented just for this, the same exact tensile strength as what is commonly used to seal the eyes, mouths, and...other orifices of corpses. I wondered if later, she would go over them with the stiff brush she used to make the glue invisible, teasing out and applying cosmetics to the lashes. I always left that up to her.

I didn't have to see Molly to know exactly where she was, and what she was doing, but being unable to _see_ it in any case eliminated a source of distraction. Dipping the flannel in the basin, how kind of her to use warm water-although I suppose even a corpse's skin is better cleaned with warm than cold-she continued to wipe down my limbs and insistently but gently dabbed dried blood away from a few other breaks in my skin. I knew her to be so meticulous in this, I doubt any bloodstained water even made it to the towels I'd used for padding underneath my battered carcass. Apparently, I spoke. “Molly, how does one behave towards...a friend?”

Molly huffed- a short, amused breath. “Questions today, Sherlock?” She turned back to the basin, then took it over to the nearest sink to rinse it out and refill it. “And here I was just growing accustomed to how good a listener your corpse can be. Turn over, and for god's sake don't go toppling off the slab. I'm too knackered to go on with dragging you about.” Knowing I couldn't see her generally made her bold.

Even with my eyes sealed, I could smell each of the previous 8 hours' work in nesting layers around her when she came closer with the basin. I managed to turn over without much trouble, as my pain levels had been reduced considerably. I knew she was tired, but if she didn't want to be here with me she wouldn't have offered. Would she? What a...novel line of reasoning.

“I'll be able to close the rest of these back up,” she muttered, the flannel working again over my back, this time. “I've got the plain surgical glue as well.” I said nothing, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. I knew the scarring would be insignificant, the possibility of keloids almost nonexistent considering my notable dearth of melanin. Hypotheticals aside, I knew from wounds I'd already had, and a few I'd made myself, that even under rough treatment and repeated debridement, even deep or unstitched wounds left a relatively flat and uniformly pale (after some time, anyways) mark that blended more or less seamlessly into the surrounding unscarred flesh. But that was no reason to inhibit Molly plying her trade on my unresisting torso.

I made sure to lay with my arms out so she could reach my hands, and asked, “The full treatment then, Miss Hooper?” She clicked her tongue at me a bit and replied, “I won't forget your fucking _f_ _ ingernails _ , Sherlock, when have I ever?” and began humming in a rather tuneless way that would have been annoying if I hadn't already been comfortably sedated. Well, comfortable except for the decidedly obnoxious erection I'd developed and had apparently been laying on for quite a bit of time already. Grateful for the towels I'd padded the slab with, I shifted irritably and disturbed what Molly had been doing to one of the positively masticated bruises over my left trapezius. Molly huffed, and I could hear a half-smile in her voice when she said, “Just wait for it to go away, that's what I always do.” She snorted a bit wickedly and remarked, “After all, I've plenty of experience working with...stiffs.” 

She fell silent, not touching me any longer.

And the next moment, she was leaning over the table, laughing with her whole body, and so was I much to my (chagrin?) surprise, which is quite the experience when your eyes are glued shut, your upper body has been through the mangler, and the remnants of a flagging erection are being smashed into a pile of towels under your more-than-slightly-drugged paroxysms of somewhat hysterical laughter. She'd leaned her head against the table I lay on, quite near actually; I could feel the heat of her scalp close to my left hand. As we wheezed out the last of our puerile amusement at her deliberately stupid joke, I felt for the few strands of hair that always escaped the severe ponytail she wore during her shifts, and I asked, “Molly...am I your  _ friend _ , then?”

She had stilled, the fit of laughter passed, but hadn't moved her head as I played with a few strands of hair I knew to be brown, and felt to be in need of a wash. “Of course,” she whispered. “Of course you are.”

“How can that be true when I don't understand?” I complained after a bit, in a half-asleep mumble. She'd leaned up now, and begun applying the glue to a few of the places that needed it, which honestly wasn't many. I'd lost interest in attempting to stay awake, and Molly was rather accustomed to me falling asleep during our...sessions. Which, if I'm to be honest, was sort of the point of it all. _Among others_ , I supposed. “I don't know what I'm meant to be doing,” I drawled out the vowels, slipping a bit more unconscious. “I don't know if I'm supposed to change, or how. I've been dead, you see. The rules changed.”

Molly sighed as she finished the last of the glue, holding together a few bits until it took. “Not everything has rules, Sherlock,” she absently replied. “Sometimes you have to just be who you are, and hope the rest will work itself out. Every friendship or relationship is its own animal, and the rules are whatever the people involved decide they are. Besides, I thought you only cared about rules enough to find opportunities to break them.”

I grunted. Barely there anymore. “How do I make John Watson love me again?”

Her hands stilled a moment, then resumed. She whispered, “He never stopped.”

I'd fallen asleep then.

* * *

By the time I woke, it was evening again of course. I felt surprisingly well, considering the drugged sleep I'd maintained for about 12 hours. Molly had left me quite some time ago, nicely zipped in and done...whatever it is she does to make certain I'm not disturbed. Working the zip from the inside to let myself out of the body bag was simple enough, and as I sat up, I noticed she'd also gone over the wounds on my upper body with her cosmetic skills so that they appeared to be gone, but when I reached up-yes, she'd left my face. Well, that sort of thing would hardly be a challenge for her.

I slid off the slab and began to dress, noticing that the small spots of blood on yesterday's shirt weren't too terrible, and could probably be gotten out by Mrs. Hudson....oh. Yes, I'd forgotten that several somewhat relevant people were still under the impression that I was deceased. Unless of course, John had told them. I wasn't counting on that, the man had an uncanny ability to stew in silence when he had a mind to. When he wasn't shouting out my business to a restaurant full of complete strangers.

Enough of that, I was ready to make my return to Baker Street properly, well, less a quick stop off at Scotland Yard.

Afterwards, wincing a bit at yet another test of the surgical glue's tensile strength from Greg's ( _ delete that _ ) Graham's overly enthusiastic hugs, and walking briskly towards Baker Street with a stolen fag pleasantly reeking in my mouth, I pondered a bit more on the problem of John, and my mind worried at the case that had moved Mycroft to come up off his lumpen arse to my erstwhile rescue in person. Checking my phone, I discovered that someone had blabbed my reappearance after all, as the hashtag #SherlockLives had begun trending in the last few hours. Perhaps Mrs Hudson would be expecting me after all. I hoped so, since my stomach had finally decided to make its unreasonable demands that I put something into it immediately if not sooner once I'd started smoking. I tossed the blasted thing away well before it got down to the filter; I was beginning to feel a bit nauseous, and I needed a cab, besides.

Upon my arrival, the screeching, while expected, was still incredibly unpleasant. God, but the woman could be shrill, how could I have forgotten that? 

“Unless you promise that you  _ will _ actually dash out my brains with that pan, please refrain from-Mrs. Hudson, please....” I took a deep breath and shouted with considerable force, “ _ Mrs. Hudson _ !”

She stopped, thank god, and went about looking at me and making noises like the flustered featherhead she seemed much of the time, winding herself down before finally huffing and sniffing a bit and and asked, “well, are you hungry at all then, Sherlock?”

I looked down at her, trying to let my sincere affection creep into my face (which may have still been a fright, I hadn't bothered to look), and finally exhaled. “Famished, actually”, I blurted, and stomped my way over to her kitchen table before collapsing noisily into what I knew quite well was the chair she customarily sat in, legs straight out and folded almost in half, resting my head on my folded arms.

“None of that _eggs_ shite,” I mumbled truculently, fiddling with a salt shaker and actually dumping some out onto the tabletop, _oops_ or something, “and also is there any chance you could make the Yorkshire Puddings with whatever it is you've got on already.” I could see that she'd eaten previously, and was in fact in the middle of washing up when I'd arrived, and from the smell that lingered, possibly a beef stew or something of that order had been recently put away, her portion for the next day so I knew she had something edible in there somewhere and why was she staring _at my face_ instead of cooking my _supper_? With a scowl, I bellowed as best I could from this position, “ _What_ , Mrs. Hudson?!” 

Her watery eyes took on a bit of hardness where they'd been staring at my lip. “Been to see John already, then?”, and turned to the cupboards to retrieve the flour and the salt from the table (where I was pushing around what I'd spilled with a forefinger), took a bowl from the rack where it had been washed already this evening, and began to measure out the proper amount to make (let's see) one large or three to five small Yorkshire Puddings.

In the end, I couldn't wait after all and heated the stew in the microwave, wolfing it down without much tasting the chunks or chewing it much, so we ate the puddings after with a great deal of golden syrup shared between us. There were actually eight of them after all, and perhaps if I hadn't been in such a peckish state when I arrived I would have bothered to watch more closely. She'd been nattering on the entire time of course, and I took a moment while stuffing my gob to flip though what she had said for anything actually important, but I saw nothing of note and deleted most of it. New boyfriend, younger this time. She'd had a shag earlier that day. Fine.  
I spoke into the middle of another of her babbling sentences. “I owe you an apology, Mrs. Hudson. I didn't intend to be gone quite so long.” She sucked what she'd been saying back into her lungs, and gave me a funny look as she let the breath out.

“Are...you quite alright then, Sherlock?” she queried, eyeballing me in a manner I'd forgotten was a bit usual for her. Forgotten! Impossible. “I...assume you've found out that John intends to, well. _To be married_.” I was full, but continued to push my finger into the syrup and lick it off. I was feeling quite decadent about it all, and considered asking for additional sweets to possibly hoard in my flat for later. I finished licking at my finger and, darting my eyes up at Mrs Hudson, commented, “You've met her, then? I like her. Clever, really,” and pushed my wet finger absently into the pool of syrup again.

“She said she'd talk him  _ round _ ,” I said, drawing out the vowels. I'd actually been deciding which maps and papers I was going to dive for as soon as I got up into my flat to begin work on Mycroft's terrorist attack, but when I glanced up, Mrs Hudson had such a look on her face, who knows that manner of daft fancy had taken her. 

I felt a rush of such sincere affection and genuine amusement, I burst out laughing. I promptly stood up, still laughing a bit, and clapped my hands together briskly, proclaiming, “Thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Hudson for,” I twirled my hand at the table, still covered in spilled salt, dirty dishes and yes, there was some syrup as well and even, _there,_ I'd sloshed a bit of the stew on the tabletop, “...feeding me up!” I popped the “p” for emphasis.

Energized, I clapped once more, turned on my heel and rushed out the door, stomped up the stairs and into my flat, slamming the door shut behind me.

* * *

 


	3. Behind the Curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I see. Yes. ‘Why?’ That’s a little more difficult to explain._
> 
> “Hello, Mary.”  
> A pause.  
> “Sherlock? John's here, but I don't know if he-”  
> “I called to speak to you. How's his shape?”  
> “His... _oh_.” She laughed quietly. “Still a bit square around the edges, I'm afraid, but he's shaved this morning.”  
>  I smiled, and oily water from my hair dripped towards my mouth. “It's gone, then?”  
> She murmured, “No more bristly kisses for me. How've you been? That nose alright?”  
> I snorted to prove it. “I'm well known to be indestructible.”  
> “I've found that old blog of his,” she said softly. “Indestructibility sounds like the least of it.” She sighed. “I don't care why you left, Sherlock. But I need to know whether you plan to stay.”

* * *

Several days later, I collapsed along the couch and stared up at the massive wad of maps, photographs, and other visual representations of my collected ruminations on Mycroft's problem. As always, I resented the need for them, their presence reminding me to focus fully on this without trailing off onto some other puzzle nagging at me. And if I'm to be honest, the majority of my deductions are visual. Or olfactory, of course, so I try to avoid cigarettes when I can.

I spend a lot of time resenting Mycroft, but there are just  _ so _ many perfectly sound reasons to indulge myself on that count. Not the least that he seems unaffected by his smoking habit, the insufferable prat. I can think hard, I remember things unless I forget them on purpose, and I can maintain focus for an inhumanly long amount of time. I sniffed at myself a bit, thinking  _ well, sometimes a bit  _ too _ long _ . I stood up, shrugged out of my dressing gown, shirt, and trousers, before peeling off my underwear and heading towards the bathroom. 

I'd been talking to John the past few days. I'd definitely made a _habit_ of doing so during the last two years, envisioning the John I'd remembered, and in his absence I had to make do with listing off possibilities and refuting them on my own. Out loud, in the hope that perhaps I could hear myself saying something so stupid, it just might be  _ brilliant _ . Too much effort, for not enough reward. I leaned over, deciding to run a bath instead of just running out the hot water in the shower while forgetting to actually wash myself during a few routine mnemonic exercises.

I climbed into the full tub, and sank down until my healing upper body was fully submerged, and kept going until my nose nearly hit the water. I'd tried phoning John Watson at his place of business, some clinic or other, earlier in the week, and received nothing more than a torrent of less-than-inventive invectives before hearing the slam of the receiver.  _ Rude _ . The water rippled as I exhaled peevishly from flared nostrils. I found it irritating that he seemed so content in my absence to slip into a dull existence of doctoring the minor ailments of the groaning populace by day, returning to a flat conveniently located near his workplace by night, and dating a coworker...Mary. 

_ Mary _ , who also hated The Mustache. I could ring her up just as easily, couldn't I?

I slipped my head fully beneath the water, blowing bubbles out of my nose and mouth in the process. Out of habit, I held my breath to see how long I could stay under after having already forced the air out of my lungs, and thought a bit on that while they strained and hitched. She said she would “talk him round,” implying a possible intercession on my behalf with John. It was possible she'd already tried and failed, or that the process was still underway. I found myself interested. What was her investment in this situation? I assumed she'd been impressed by John's glowing praise of me, gilded with the glow of eternal nostalgia due to my presumed death. Perhaps she'd even looked up the articles and stories about my achievements (and my disgrace and apparent suicide, followed by posthumous redemption), the  _ Hat  _ of course, maybe even speculation on what kind of life we'd led together here in the flat on Baker street.

How on earth could she have been  _ happy _ to see my return, knowing what it could mean?

I kicked the side of the tub, beginning to flop about in desperation for air. A mere 47 seconds, and I shot upright, gasping, sloshing hot water onto the floor surrounding the feet of the tub (another charming feature that had encouraged me to move into the place more or less immediately). I noticed the slightly bowed section of the tiles that had been replaced some years ago, arranged with much grumbling by Mrs. Hudson, due to the water damage caused by moisture left on the floor. Something about “putting down a mat.”

I reached out, my arm shedding water, and yanked a towel from the bar so it would fall mostly over the veritable ocean washing across the tiles once again. John had always taken showers, and toweled off still standing in the deep, elevated tub. I preferred a nice, long soak if I was to bother at all, which I had to admit I sometimes did considerably less of when I was in the middle of teasing out the particulars of a case in the flat. And it wasn’t as if John's nearly military haircut needed anything other than a quick brush and a dab of something. I don't believe he even used a hair conditioner. Thinking of it, I grabbed some, squirted it into my palm and began finger-combing the tangles where my head had been rubbing the back of my chair or the sofa as I stared up at the wall of maps and photographs of my “rats”.

The only passably interesting case I had at the moment was of course the one I'd come back ( _ been rescued- _ shut up) for, and that had turned into a waiting game. I winced against a particularly stubborn knot, chalking it up as a loss and just pulling until it gave way, along with an appreciably large portion of hair torn from the scalp in my haste. The fact that I had miraculously returned from the dead had hit the news, and clients had been showing up at intervals, mostly just to stare. As an audience, they left much to be desired, and of course, the sheer boredom of it all had finally led to my aborted attempt to speak to John. I really should try Mary. Where had I left my phone? Ahh, the dressing-gown pocket.

I stood up suddenly, sloshing out even more water, and stepped out of the tub, my feet slapping the soaked towel over the tiles. I walked out the open door (no need to shut it without a flatmate's delicate sensibilities to consider), through the hall and the kitchen to where my pile of discarded clothing lay and rummaged, dripping copiously, into the pockets for my phone. According to the lock screen it was 8:48 AM, so I dialed the clinic's number, and put the phone against my wet ear.  _ Eugh. _ I'd not stopped to rinse out the conditioner.

I'd already done a bit of looking into the clinic's schedule, and called when the only person logically available to answer the telephone would be Mary herself. I spoke as she drew breath to spout a professional-sounding greeting.

“Hello, Mary.”

A pause.

“Sherlock? John's here, but I don't know if he-”

“I called to speak to you. How's his shape?”

“His... _oh_.” She laughed quietly. “Still a bit square around the edges, I'm afraid, but he's shaved this morning.”

I smiled, and oily water from my hair dripped towards my mouth. “It's gone, then?”

She murmured, “No more bristly kisses for me. How've you been? That nose alright?”

I snorted to prove it. “I'm well known to be indestructible.”

“I've found that old blog of his,” she said softly. “Indestructibility sounds like the least of it.” She sighed. “I don't care why you left, Sherlock. But I need to know whether you plan to stay.”

I blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”

Her voice held no rancor, just that same earnest tone. “Are you back  _ for good _ ?”

I looked around for a moment at the flat. The much abused wall I'd spray painted and shot at, perforated with hundreds of holes from pushpins, my chair...John's chair with its Union Jack cushion (which was always mine, I'd moved in with it), the kitchen table set up again with my microscope, the Bunsen, and the rest of my equipment. I thought about how good it had felt to rattle around in my old space again...but how lonely it had been. Strange. I'd never considered that word to apply to myself before. I'd always worked alone; even when I lived with others, my life, my  _ work _ , remained a solitary venture. Until John. I kept finding myself expecting to hear him struggling to get his key in the door, cursing and loaded up with the groceries, or stamping up the stairs after a particularly bad date and smelling of beer and frustration. 

My chest felt tight. John had had to come back here to the flat, boxed up my things, but threw out nothing. And he had thought I would be gone forever. John was just  _ angry _ with me, he wasn't dead. And John, although he pretended otherwise, was just as addicted to the Game as I ever was. Without it ( _ him _ ), what was there to life? I wondered briefly if he'd turned to chemical highs ( _like me_ -shut up) while I'd been gone, if Mary'd found him much more degraded state than he appeared to be now. I'd find out later. And Mary....perhaps Mary had something to do with that, this clever, odd woman who managed to find it in her heart to actually welcome my return, to welcome me, and the messes I invariably made. What kind of woman could do that? Who could love John, broken as he was, from what I'd seen at the restaurant during our...reunion. 

The kind of woman to whom I also owed...an apology.

I let out a shuddering breath. “Mary, I....am sorry. I'm  _ home now _ . I have no current or future plans to die unexpectedly, or...leave. Again.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Sherlock,” she said, warmth coming back to her voice. 

I leaned over, gripping the back of the chair. “What can I do to fix this?” I asked, my voice sounding strange in my ears.

“Give him time,” she almost whispered; I could hear a bit of doors opening and closing in the background of the office. “You and I know what kind of man he is. I know how he needs things to...happen.” She paused. “The kinds of things that can happen to _bad cabbies_.” I wondered if he'd told her, or if she'd figured it out from the blog. People in relationships said all sorts of things to each other, I supposed. She continued. “Give it time, and just _be Sherlock Holmes_. It's enough. _You're_ enough.” 

With that astonishing statement, her voice changed to a bright, loud caw: “Yes, Cath, I  _ do _ think we should get together for a brunch. I know how much you love your brunches, with the tiny cakes. Call you later, okay?” 

I replied, still softly, “Yes, do that. Goodbye, Mary.”

I stared at my phone a bit after ringing off, marveling at the woman who'd chosen John Watson, and feeling quite a bit better than I had in days. And for the first time, I began to wonder how others had fared in the time I'd been gone, living their lives, making new connections, and just getting on with things. A wicked grin stole over my face, and I quickly sent a text to Big Brother.

_Come over at earliest convenience. A matter of LIFE and DEATH.-SH_

Mycroft, for a wonder, didn't immediately try to call, and sent a reply within a minute. Interesting.

_Aren't we a bit old for that, Brother Dear?_

I glanced down at the coffee table, noticing the remains of a breakfast that had appeared quite some time ago, and had aged rather poorly indeed. In fact, it bore signs of having been stepped on at least once, surely when one of my homeless network called, and I had to mark off another “rat” from the wall with the markers scattered about for that purpose. I sent off another text quickly.

_Bring take away -SH_

I tossed my phone on the couch, and made my way back to the hall, scooping up my discarded clothing on the way to stuff in the hamper-I was having a guest today. In the hall, I opened the cupboard and looked over the games I like to have around, some of which John had bought years ago, to liven the downtime between cases. Yes, there it was. Perfect. I grinned again, shut the cupboard, touched the back of my head and grimaced.  _ Eugh _ .

I went back to the tub and plopped down into the water to finally rinse my hair, which had grown quite soft after its extended conditioning.

* * *

 


	4. Women and Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Just tell us_ why _and you can sleep. Remember sleep?_

* * *

After beating Mycroft not only at Operation (resulting in the patient's DEATH of course), but having subsequently had the last word in Deductions, he practically scuttled from the flat with what I was almost certain was a blush across his pinched face. In addition, there's nothing Mrs. Hudson loves more than needling Mycroft's underbelly with assertions that somehow, he must be some sort of _good person_ underneath his supercilious (and rather sour) exterior. I smiled softly as I turned back to my rat-wall, wondering if she might be on to something. I hadn't seen Mycroft that flustered in a while, and I certainly hadn't won an argument with him since the business over the rust patterns on the nail from....six years ago, next sunday. All in all, I _was_ feeling rather indestructible.

I supposed I might as well take care of some of the more frivolous cases that had building up the last few days, and turned around to inform John... Ahhh, _that_ . The only cloud in my sky, as it were. Even given the mess I'd made of John's ... _friendship_ , I suppose it must be called (you sure about that?- _nevermind_ ); even given that, the conversation I'd had with Mary had given me hope.

I examined the wall again, but it was becoming clear that until one of my homeless network texted me again, I'd have to amuse myself for the day, somehow.

I flopped back onto the couch, my dressing gown billowing up as I grunted peevishly at the impact. I was back, and I remembered how much more entertaining it had been to bring John along on cases than it had been working alone all those years before. Not really an option at the moment, unless...well. What Mycroft had said: “Oh yes. _Friends._ Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now.” I thought back to Baskerville, when I'd told John, “I don't have friends. I’ve just got _one._ ” But that wasn't quite true anymore, was it? I could think of at least one other person who might have the day off. I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent another text, to Molly Hooper this time.

_Come to Baker Street at earliest convenience if not sooner. -SH_

I didn't imagine the engagement ring would make much difference in the haste with which I expected her to arrive. I walked to the window, hoping it wouldn't be...awkward. My stomach actually fluttered a bit as I considered how often I'd felt awkward in her presence, and subsequently went on the attack. In the time I'd been gone, I hadn't had too much idle time, but enough to consider that my treatment of Molly may have been influenced by what I had come to realize was a long term infatuation with me, perhaps even more. After all, it's not as if she didn't realize what kind of person I am. She appeared to hold few illusions about what I valued, or what my interests were. Her reply arrived swiftly enough:

_Be there in half an hour._

She didn't even ask what for, I thought with a smile. I actually marveled a bit at how she could still fancy me after all this time...probably since well before the awful Christmas party where I'd made such an ass of myself, caught up in the game with Irene. I really hadn't known until then, a fact that still stuck in my craw.

I had no difficulty watching other people's interactions and could practically deduce their every thought from a blink, a tilt of the head, a facial tic, a flared nostril, but once the recipe included _me_ in its morass of interpersonal implications, I seemed to turn into quite the idiot. Not that that had ever been an issue until relatively recently. I'd always seen such dramatic scenes play out from...well, from outside them. An audience member, suddenly thrust upon the stage and expected to have all the lines memorized.

Annoyed, I picked up my violin and ground out a few bars of Bartók's _Tempo di ciaccona_ to suit the dissonance in this line of thought.

Since my return, I'd been so distracted by the changes in other people, changes in the life I'd taken a temporary hiatus from, that I'd neglected to notice the possibility that I'd actually changed as well. Sentiment. _Relationships_ , for god's sake. Impossible as it seemed, I had friends. More just those invested in benefiting from my work and my processes, but the kind of people who would grieve for my loss, as deeply as John had grieved. Those who would help me without a glance backwards, who would keep my secrets and hide the evidence. It seemed as though my relationship with John had warped in my mind during my mission to dismantle Moriarty's network, to something much more transactional and cold than what was coming back to me, practically a muscle memory, now that I was firmly ensconced back in our home. Well, just _my_ home, now.

I switched to Stravinsky's _Elegy_ as I considered how I'd seemingly forgotten or dismissed the easy domesticity John and I had shared; another facet of the relationship I'd retroactively oversimplified while squatting in ditches and drinking rainwater in Eastern Europe. And being imprisoned and tortured, I supposed. In the most difficult of times, I'd been more inclined to remember John as the war veteran, the crack shot with the smoking gun, washing powder burns out of his hands and winking. The one who would come running at the mere hint of danger, who would jump in front of a bus simply because I demanded it (nevermind that we'd been handcuffed together at the time).

It would appear that two years of constant violence, danger, and nearly dying in truth a time or seven had blunted my conceptualization of the comforts of home. I'd come to rely on John's mother henning at the flat, between cases and during them. I'd stopped playing completely, instrument and bow hanging from my hands which had lowered to my sides as I continued to stare out the window. The man had actually _cooked_ for me, urging me to eat during my long stretches of pacing and thinking, tacking bits of paper to the walls. The risottos had been some of his better efforts, if a bit overly buttered. I probably had needed the calories anyway. And he'd done the shopping, picked up the dry cleaning, and probably a million other mundane tasks I'd considered beneath my intellect (which of course, they were, but even so). With a sinking feeling, I realized that this, too, was the man whose marriage proposal dinner I'd interrupted with my crass mustache jokes and foolish accents.

Could I actually have _deleted_ that? I thought back to some of the more...trying tasks I'd been faced with during my time as a dead man. Perhaps it had been easier to think of a John who would grin like a wolf at me putting a hatchet into the back of a man's leg, disabling him long enough to get what I needed and get the hell out of the secure facility I was nearly certain to have died in, otherwise. Less comfortable to remember the company of the man whose groggy eyes followed me as I walked past the plate of beans and toast he'd put in front of my accustomed place at table in the morning. The one who'd finally just shoved me into my bedroom and practically thrown me onto the bed when I'd been up nearly 82 hours, puzzling over which of 12 ways a woman weighing no more than 9 stone had pushed a man twice that out a window to his untimely demise. I'd fallen asleep as soon as I was horizontal, and woken with the answer.

John-the-doctor, instead of John-the-soldier. ( _I had bad days._ ) Thinking of what I'd been through, and some of the things I'd done while I was away, became actually _painful_ to think of in conjunction with the almost nurturing behavior I was remembering from John over the years we had lived together. Sometime during my death, it had become much easier to imagine someone applauding my recklessness, instead of someone who could tend my wounds, feed me up. Listen to me yell at the telly. Someone to provide comfort instead of spurring me on to increasingly dangerous and violent acts. Acts which had been necessary to be able to come back at all, necessary to ensure the safety of...of my _friends_.

The violin dropped from my nerveless fingers with a discordant _bong_ , startling me out of my reverie.

Disturbed, I put the violin back in its case, and pushed that entire line of thought into one of the recesses in my mind that allows the problem to process in a slower and almost subconscious manner. Even though I claim to delete things, I don't really _forget_ anything (although it is nice to have as a cover for things I never knew in the first place). Perhaps the combination of roaming London again and mental proximity to the rest of what I'd pushed to the back of my mind would help round out the problem of John, and give me a better idea of how to go from there. If nothing else, it was something to do while “giving it time”, as Mary had said. After these unwelcome revelations, I was feeling a bit square around the edges myself.

I tried to recapture some of my triumph from this morning, and actually succeeded a bit. Molly had arrived, and after my ruminations, I found myself with a new commitment to not just recapture, but hopefully reforge the relationships I'd abandoned in a attempt to save them. My heart lifted as I heard her come up the stairs, although I winced a bit as I thought of the great many insults I had flung at her earnest face over the years as a weight between us.

I heard her come in and say a bit breathlessly, “You wanted to see me?”  
I turned around and smiled to myself at the look on her face. “Yes.”  
She had an absolutely ridiculous scarf on, and as I began to walk towards her, I prepared to make her an offer I knew she wouldn't refuse. Her eyes practically glowed.  
“Molly?”  
“Yes?”  
My voice came out in a rush almost as breathless as hers, “Would you like to ...”

We spoke at the same moment.

“... have dinner?”

“ ... solve crimes?”

  
She looked at me a bit awkwardly, then. “Ooh. “

I pursed my lips and couldn't help blurting, “What is it with women and _dinner_? Is it always some sort of code?”

Still a bit discomfited, she nonetheless fired back, “As if you don't commit crimes more often than not under the guise of _solving_ them.”

I pursed my lips at her, then relaxed and said, “Touché. I've already had Mycroft over with take away, but if you're hungry, I could...”

She grinned. “No, I'm not particularly peckish.”

I narrowed my eyes a bit (a text from Irene: _I'm not hungry, let's have dinner_ ), then decided to ignore it. “I really do need...another set of eyes on some of these cases that've been popping up every five minutes since I've made my triumphant return. And of course, who knows? You might even see something I miss.”

Her face softened, and she murmured, “You don't have to resort to flattery. I'd like that. Very much. Although I can't really... _be John_ , you know.”

I huffed a bit at that and replied, “Well, you certainly have even worse taste in jumpers, and I didn't believe that was possible.” I winced, hearing myself reflexively insulting her so quickly. She only laughed at me, though, and remarked, “And here I thought Sherlock Holmes had actually changed a bit. Besides, I know how much you adore loud knits.”

Disturbed yet again, I launched into a monologue on the clients I planned to see that day. Within 30 seconds, I'd managed to shove Molly's observations on my jumper preferences into the rest of the mess with John, where it could ferment for the remainder of the day. I decided to focus my attention on what was most important for the present: showing off as much as possible for the next several hours.

I'd earned it.

* * *

I munched my fish and chips from the massive sheet of crumpled white butcher paper, thinking again on the remarkable events of the afternoon spent with Miss Hooper. Although the largest part of my brain was delving into the fascinating problem of the disappearing man from the Tube, I was also still caught up in the rush of strange emotions I'd had swirling around me like weather for most of it.

Anderson's ridiculous Jack the Ripper setup had been amusing, but also brought immediacy to just how empty so much of it felt without John needling me as I pranced about being Sherlock Holmes. Molly was insightful and a pleasant companion, but my friendship ( _imagine that_ ) with her lacked the easy banter and bluff camaraderie I'd always enjoyed when John and I used to Do Our Thing. I wonder when I'd started thinking of it that way. I'd had a few difficult moments when Lestrade had asked after John, and I'd just put him off with a terse, “Not really in the picture anymore.” Strange how ingrained certain habits can become, like talking to John even when I was working alone. Bothersome, really.

It was only after a real challenge to my reasoning appeared that I was suddenly struck by how much Molly's presence had bolstered my confidence. Not that it's ever been much lacking, but having someone to impress has always brought out the best in me. Not being able to see the answer to the problem of the disappearing passenger immediately had led me to consider why I _wanted_ to impress Molly at all; certainly I hadn't cared previously. Which made me think about the ring, which made me...consider the implications of our activities _for Molly_. I'd reconsidered her dinner offer at that point, and in the middle of blathering about _all the maps_ , I asked offhandedly, “Fancy some chips?”  
She'd seemed befuddled by that, for some reason. “What?”  
I'd continued on, undeterred. “I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions.”  
Molly always takes a shot back. “Did you get him off a murder charge?”  
“No – I helped him put up some shelves.”  
She'd laughed, but turned serious a moment later. People are always doing that, it seems like. Or perhaps it's just Molly Hooper. How can anyone keep up?

She'd turned that gaze on me from the top of the stairs and asked, “What was today about?”  
I relaxed. “Saying thank you.”  
“For what?”  
How could she fail to see something so obvious?

I tried to keep impatience from my voice. “Everything you did for me.”  
Molly replied a bit awkwardly, “It’s okay. It was my pleasure.”  
She started to leave, and no, she couldn't just _leave_ without understanding what I was trying to say.

I protested, “No, I mean it.”  
She looked down a bit and murmured, “I don’t mean “pleasure”. I mean, I didn’t mind. I wanted to.”

No, she still didn't understand. I tried again.

“Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible.”  
I began to realize how that sounded, coming out the way it did. How did I mean it? I don't know. I knew that Molly would still drop everything to help me. To spend time with me. To be my friend. But that was all it could be, here and now. What was I doing? What was I even _trying to say_? It had seemed so important a moment ago, but that time had come and gone. I clasped my hands behind my back a bit sadly and said, “But you can’t do _this_ again, can you?”  
She smiled back, her lips trembling, and replied, “I had a lovely day. I’d love to – I just ... um ... _”_

She glanced down. The ring, of course.  
I winced a little, internally.

“Oh, congratulations, by the way.”  
She wiggled a bit. “He’s not from work. We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He’s nice. We ... he’s got a dog ... we...we go to the pub on weekends and he ... I’ve met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family. I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this.”  
I took a breath, and put some more warmth into my voice.

“I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not _all_ the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths.”  
She still smirked a bit at that. Dating any version of Moriarty must've been quite the ride, after all.

Barely audible, she breathed, “No?”  
Ha! What a delight she was. I smiled confidently. “No.”

Her bold stare at me could not go unanswered. Her scent was wrapped around her, each place we'd been to and step we'd taken, like an autobiography of our day together. She'd taken the dregs of what I'd had to give for years, never asking much of anything in return. And in fact, a lot of what I'd dished out, I probably _couldn't_ have taken in return. So in that moment I asked nothing that she couldn't afford to give. I _gave_ her nothing she couldn't afford to _have_. And in the end, I had won too many enjoyable arguments that day to let her have the last word. So I bent closer to her until her eyelids fluttered shut, and I placed a fairly chaste kiss on her cheek.

As I ghosted past her and let myself out, her saucy remark followed me out the door.

“Maybe it’s just my type.”

Thank god the door had swung between us, so she never saw me almost miss the step down.

* * *

Of course I'd taken the opportunity to get myself a load of chips on the way home, which I currently was chewing on, along with my impressions for the day. I'd been standing there for quite a while with a half-eaten chip in my hand when I heard _Mary_ , of all people, barging her way past Mrs Hudson at the door to the flat. She sounded distinctly upset. I instantly came to and stepped around the corner from the kitchen, calling to her, “Mary? What's wrong?”

She hurried up to me and pulled out her phone, saying, “Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it’s not. It’s a skip-code.”

I gave her a hard look. _Skip code?_ _How had she..?_ -but I was quickly becoming more than a little concerned, since Mary and I only had one _concern_ in common that I could think of. Once I looked at the message, concern turned quickly to real alarm.

_Save souls now!  
John or James Watson?_

First word...then every third.... **Save John Watson**

 _Saint or Sinner?_  
James or John?  
The more is Less?

**Saint James the Less**

Alarm turned to panic, and the remains of my dinner dropped to the ground as I belted down the stairs, out the door, and into the street. I barely heard myself rapid-firing questions at Mary, her answers quickly weaving together like ribbons in my mind, combining with thoughts I was trying to form into a net to catch John Watson before whatever was going to happen, happened.

I almost didn't realize what I'd been searching for until it appeared, and I never once considered that not only had I just stolen a motorbike, I had a willing and able accomplice behind me riding pillion. But every ounce of my attention, sharpened by adrenaline, honed in on the quickest path to the church where Something Terrible was happening, had happened, _was going to happen_ to John Watson. Mary snaked an arm around me to show another message:

_Getting warmer Mr Holmes  
You have about ten minutes_

Mary cried out, “What does it mean? What are they going to do to him?” as I did my best to keep from tipping the bike entirely. I'd never actually learned to drive one. I heard the ghost of John's derisive laughter, and it merely spurred me to go a bit faster as I replied in a hoarse wail, “ _I don't know_!”

I've no idea how I managed the rest of the ride. I vaguely remember actually driving down and back up sets of concrete stairs, which I'm sure was a feat I couldn't duplicate under any other circumstances. In some ways I suppose, it was like dancing, or fighting-I was relying on my body in ways I'd developed purposefully, and put to good use many times in unforeseeable situations.

It wasn't until we actually pulled up to the church. And I saw the message....

_John is quite a Guy!_

And they lit the fire. That I knew.

The flames tore upwards into the dusk, and I bellowed sickly, “Oh, my god.” I had just enough sense to shout a warning at Mary, “Jump off!” before I practically hurled the bike away and began to run toward the fire. The smoke seared my lungs, and I realized I was screaming. I tried to stop, listening, and now I could hear him, _he was alive_ , and the heat from the massive fire scorched my face, then my hands, as I began tossing away bits of burning wood and rubbish from the fire. There-he'd been put in the middle of the -he was _burning_ -I plunged my arms into the center, grabbed, and pulled as hard as I could.

I dragged him well away from the inferno, his head lolling on his neck. Had he been drugged?-he was _bleeding_. I put my hand to his face, trying to rouse him, trying to ask him questions, before I realised I was just saying his name, “John, John” over and over. Grateful for Mary at my side, for herself as well as her medical expertise, I swung up my head at the crowd like a viper and screamed, “Call a _fucking ambulance_ , for god's sake!”  
It seemed like ages before it arrived, and somehow I ended up at the A&E too, since apparently my leather gloves hadn't protected the gap between them and my coatsleeves, and a few spots has scorched through. I'd inhaled a bit of smoke as well, and was being given oxygen, although I'd not breathed nearly as much as John had. It turned out that John had been drugged, and the lacerations to his scalp were mostly from struggling under a massive pile of sharp wooden ends and a nail or two.

I'd been doctored in the hall across from the room where John was finally coming up out of it, Mary at his side. Nothing much at all, just a dab of cream and a few bandages sufficed for us both. Mary saw me watching and came over to sit next to me for a moment.

“He's still woozy, but he mostly knows what happened. He can't talk much, his throat's raw as anything, and the drugs are still making it hard to talk. He wants to come see you tomorrow, if that's alright.”

I sighed painfully and coughed a little. “This isn't how I imagine it would go.”

She grunted, not quite a laugh, and asked, “Do you have any idea who would have done something like this? I mean, Moriarty is _dead_ , isn't he?” I looked over at her and locked eyes. “I have no doubt that he is quite permanently deceased,” I stated firmly. Then I looked away. “But no, I have no idea who'd do something like this, or what they were trying to accomplish.”

She put her hand on my knee, patting it a bit absently, avoiding my hands and arms with practiced ease. Surprisingly, I didn't mind it at all. Although I may have if she'd been on the other side; I'd taken ample opportunity of having had a legitimate visit to an unfamiliar hospital to siphon off some morphine from the IVs of several patients who certainly didn't need their full allotment. They wouldn't even notice the tiny amount I'd taken from each one. Mycroft monitored Saint Bart's for that sort of activity, but this one would have been off his radar. The needle-less syringe was tucked into my right trouser pocket, ready to be squirreled away in the cubbyhole I'd made under the tiles in the flat's bathroom, where Mrs. Hudson had had them replaced. Not even Mycroft had noticed that one of them was actually removable now. Shifting in the uncomfortable plastic chair, Mary sighed heavily. “You should go home and try to get some rest,” she murmured in a low tone. “I'm going to kip on the chair in the room until John's cleared and we can get him home.”

It was almost as if her words tipped a massive brick wall over onto me, the exhaustion hitting me in a rush. She smiled tiredly at my visible slump, and said, “He won't be by until midafternoon at the earliest. It's late, Sherlock. And...thank you.” I looked at her strangely, and sighed, “You did exactly as you should. Please, never hesitate to contact me immediately, for any reason.”

With that, I got up and wandered out to see what I could do for a ride back to Baker Street.

* * *

Unfortunately when I arrived home, the bone-weary exhaustion remained but my nerves had taken on a rather unpleasant fizzing quality. I tried to remember when the last time I'd slept was, and deduced that it had to have been more than 40 hours ago. I went to the bathroom to clean my teeth, and noticed in the mirror that my face was not only sooty, it was decidedly tear-streaked. I grunted in disgust and reached for a flannel, only to be slightly perplexed by the the gauze on my wrist _there_ and plasters on my small and third finger _there_. I managed to wet the cloth and wipe at my face, removing most of the damage, and awkwardly took care of the rest of my accustomed going-to-sleep rituals without too much more fuss.

Stripping off seemed like an unimaginable amount of work, but I couldn't stand the singed-hair smell or the feel of them any longer, so I half-sat, half rolled out of my clothing on the edge of my bed and chucked them vaguely _away_. I'd tidy up later. My brain wanted to race itself trying to find some kind of explanation for the night's events, the _who/ **why** /how_ of it all, but after this latest ordeal it really did feel like a hunk of barely sentient beefsteak between my ears.

I lay back with my feet still on the floor and pressed the palms of my hands against my aching eyes. I knew each observation and bit of sensory input had been recorded and knew its place, but instead they were flying around my brain, refusing to roost where they were bidden. Sleep did have its uses, primary of which was to clean out a great deal of garbage and cement things already organized into their respective places in my head, which I had sometimes been known to call a “Mind Palace.” Of sorts. Although it surely must have been a fatuous ass indeed who'd coined the phrase originally. _Like me_ , I thought wryly, flopping like a fish in my attempts to get under the covers somehow without getting up, yanking the coverlet around without really paying attention to which way my legs bent. Finally sliding my bare feet and legs between the sheets felt so good I nearly floated.

Unfortunately, the events of the day still swirled around in my head after I'd clicked off the lamp: intrusive flashes of Molly's eyes staring me down, echoes of John weakly calling for help from the middle of the fire, Mary's screams that I didn't consciously recall hearing until now. I twitched in frustration, flipped onto my back, and piled several pillows on top of my head, trying to calm my frazzled nerves so I could finally just fucking sleep. Expect for the first night with Molly's drugs, it had been unreasonably difficult to fall asleep and stay there since my return to London. Sighing in frustration, I tried to focus instead on physical sensations, recapturing the pleasantness of having my feet and legs under the covers.

I'd been on holiday to the shore a very long time ago, and I thought on how much I'd liked the sensation of sand under my feet as I was wading in the ocean. Each time the water pulled at my shins, the sand was sucked out from _under_ my feet just a bit with each pull of the tide. It'd seemed like such an odd experience at first, like I was sinking into the earth and being pulled out into the water at once, but I'd grown fond of it quickly. I realized I'd been stroking my stomach in time with the remembered tide, and apparently my body was getting its own ideas about that.

Not something that would have really occurred to me otherwise, but I decided to go with it. I stroked myself lightly with fingertips and thumb, trying to encourage my mind to drift. A rough bandage edge was bothering me so I impatiently peeled it off and continued. My hands didn't even _hurt_ , really. I didn't toss off as frequently as some do, I suppose, but the system more or less runs itself. And I'd never really associated these sensations with the idea of _other people_ at all; although I certainly knew that was intended to be the _gist_ , I'd remained generally indifferent to the whole concept.

My mind was still playing random images and sounds from the day like it always does: yanking off my glove when I realized it was still smoldering a bit to continue gently patting John's face; Molly's eyes fluttering shut as I leaned in; Mary's absurdly comforting touch on my knee. I reached down with my other hand and petted the crease where my thigh met my torso, and I began to feel a pulling urgency in my chest as well; not unpleasant, rather the opposite in fact. I was too tired to think about it, and committed as I was to _not-thinking_ , an intense longing unattached to anything in particular came over me. My business hand noticed that circumstances had become a bit _wet_ , surprisingly, which was more than fine, and my breathing had gone ragged some time ago.

As packed with trials as it had been with triumphs, I wouldn't have had my time spent any other way than it had been today ( _with the people I love_ ). My mind, which of course would never, ever shut up, chose that moment to replay Mary's whisper over the phone from the morning, astonishingly simple words that I'd never expected anyone to have reason to say, much less to me ( _you're enough_ ) and suddenly, I was hotly spilling into my hand, accompanied by an unexpectedly deep rush of pleasure.

I made _a noise_.

I had just enough conscious thought left in me to reach out and grab the underwear I'd tossed not so much _away_ as _up_ , as they were still hanging off the side of the bed, and mop it over the mess I'd made. I fell asleep in the middle of congratulating myself for having had what was certainly the most satisfying wank of my life.

I woke up ten hours later with sore hands, my parents hammering on my door, and my pants glued to my lower belly. I briefly considered just continuing to lie there, then got out of bed with a groan and walked at an unhurried pace in the general direction of the shower. If they _did_ just end up breaking the door down and got an eyeful of their son, well into his thirties, walking to the bathroom starkers and smelling like a tin of smoked oysters, with a pair of underpants mysteriously attached to his stomach by substances best left unmentioned, it would have served them right for having had _the gall_ to subject him to such a regressively adolescent situation.

* * *

 

 


	5. Blind Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Why are we playing games? ___
> 
> __There it was, after having run all that way, bleeding and never knowing it. Seeing the glass, finally feeling it. _The pain.__ _

* * *

Clean, brushed, and dressed, I'd just heard Mummy say something that caught my ear- _not letting anyone into Parliament? Is something_ -when my door opened, and when I turned to look from where I'd stood on the couch for a better look, he was suddenly _there_. The afternoon light coming through the window gilded his hair to that false blond, and his eyes snapped to me immediately, just as they had so many times before. I'd seen that he'd shaved last night, of course, but it was hitting me hard, there in the flat. John, arriving home, as I stood here, and he was _there_ , and soon he'd ask me-

“John.”

I'd spoken aloud.

And forgotten my parents, arranged at each side of me on the couch.

_Damn._

John looked down a bit and gestured towards them, “I'm sorry, you're busy.”

I reached down and bodily seized my recalcitrant mother, who of course kept talking as I hauled her to her feet and assured my _expected_ guest (I hadn't been entirely certain he'd keep his word on that, but there he was) and hurriedly spoke over her, “no, no, no, _they were just leaving_ -”

She tried to deadweight me, but she should have known better-that old trick hadn't worked since I was sixteen (although she'd gained a bit since then, as had I), saying, “Oh, _were_ we?” I just grimaced and kept wrestling her towards the door, grunting out, “Yyyyessssss.”

John really needed to move away from the door. He did so, saying, “If you've got a case, I can-”

I cut him off. “No, no, no, not a case...” And Mummy came back in with, “Well, we're here til Saturday, remember-” God, what I wouldn't do to be as elusive as Mycroft. I waved at them like hens, abandoning the pretense I wasn't flustered. I rushed them into the doorway with, “Go, go, great, wonderful, just get out, veryniceyesgood GET OUT,” and was just closing the door when my mother shoved her sensible shoe forward and the door hit it with a solid _thunk_.

Of _course_ she did. There was really no ousting her before she'd said her piece, never had been. And there was no way she was going to leave without needling me in front of John. At that point I was wishing I _had_ just answered the door in my former state, rather than heading to the shower and letting her figure out a way in for herself while I cleaned up. I glanced back at John as she kept at it, the embodiment of _I told you so_ ; I'd ignored her advice to say something, speak to John. And of course here she was, ensuring that John and I would have to have yet another awkward conversation about the whole thing. It was if she was shrinking me with each word; I was feeling more _six_ than _sixteen_ now, and in peevish desperation, I hit her foot with the door again. She didn't budge.

My father, for a wonder, finally intervened at that point. “Ring more often, won't you?” I finally looked at them, and I deflated a bit. He continued. “She _worries_ ,” and I looked down at my mum, saw it was true, and stopped trying to cling to what remained of my dignity. Her blue eyes bored into me and she whispered, “Promise.”

I ducked my head down towards them and almost whispered, “Promise,” The moment I did, she removed her foot from the doorway. She also decided to take liberties with touching my face and that was the last straw, so I slammed the door, took a deep breath, clasped my hands and turned, _finally_ , to John.

“Sorry about that.”

He and I stared at each other across the flat. His face and scalp still bore the evidence of last night’s ordeal. He seemed more comfortable than I was, and spoke easily, “No, it's fine. Clients?”

I hesitated, and spoke unsteadily, “Just...my parents.”

He goggled. “Your _parents_?”

I walked across the room toward my desk, avoiding his gaze. “In town for a few days...”

His eyes followed me. “ _Your_ parents?”

Did the git assume I'd sprung wholly adult into existence, like Venus from the foam? I continued, “Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of _Le Mis_ , tried to talk _me_ into doing it.” I gave a tight smile, trying to look less vulnerable than I felt. John looked out the window, and said _again_ (I'd missed his _charming_ redundancies), “ _Those_...were your parents?”

“Yes.”  
He laughed. “Well ... That is not what I ...”  
He looked at me, out the window again. _What was he on about?_  
“What?”  
He was still smiling. “I-I mean they’re just ... so ...”  
 _Please don't say_ normal _. You don't know the half._  
He breathed out, “... ordinary.”

Warmed, I replied cheekily, “It’s a cross I have to bear.”  
He started to turn, then stopped, giving me a hard look.

“Did _they_ know, too?”  
Shit. Damn mother and her interfering, busybody... “Hmm?”  
He wasn't put off. “That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek.”  
I couldn't look at him. At this point it was quite clear he'd been keeping score, and I didn't have any excuses left. And he didn't want my explanations. I picked a hair off my keyboard. “Maybe.”  
“Ah!” His tone changed, and I jumped a bit. “So _that’s_ why they weren’t at the funeral.”  
I knew it, this was all going to go wrong, again. _Again._ He started to leave and I just couldn't stop myself from spreading my arms and half-yelling, “Sorry! Sorry _again_.”  
And he was _still leaving_ , disgusted with me, he'd had enough. He grunted as he walked toward the door. I wobbled a bit, drew myself up, and breathed softly, “... _Sorry_.”

He stopped. I continued, “So you've...shaved it off, then?”

I watched him look around the flat, seeing that it remained more or less unchanged. “Yeah,” he sighed, “wasn't working for me.”

I replied warmly, “I'm glad.”

He'd gravitated to the front of his chair, sliding into habit, and he looked up through his lashes at me, saying, “You didn't like it?”

I replied with an impish grin, “I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

He sat down with a grunt, his gloves slapping onto the end-table. “That's not a sentence you hear every day.” He looked a bit the worse for wear, as I almost hungrily darted my eyes over a sight I'd been wondering if I'd ever see again, John in his accustomed place in his chair, in my life. I asked with gusto, “How are you _feeling_?” That's what _friends_ do. He didn't quite grimace, but said, “A bit smoked,” cutting his eyes at me. I made a noise of agreement, soaking in the way he looked at me. Almost...the way he used to.

He continued with a deep breath, “Last night. Who did that? And why did they target _me_?” Brass tacks, then. I couldn't help but take a moment to bask in his assurance that of course, I'd have figured it out long since. He believed in Sherlock Holmes. I nearly started burying him in postulations ( _posturing_ ) and theories ( _lies-he's had enough of those_ ), but then I considered Mary's words ( _you're enough_ ), and I just couldn't. _A mistake admitted...._

I looked at him as honestly as I was capable of and said simply, “I don't know.” I licked my lips nervously and looked away as he continued, “Are they trying to get to you through me? Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you're talking about?” I looked back at my wall and repeated, “I don’t know. I can’t see the pattern. It’s too nebulous,” and I began to pace, John's presence solidifying the pattern I _could_ see, that I knew as well as the back of my own hand. With his stolid gaze following me, making me _real_ , I fell into the puzzle. “Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That’s what’s strange.”

John's voice, this tome coming from John, sitting in John's chair. _Real._

“Give his life?”

_Yes._

I spoke, my attention split between him and the wall. “According to Mycroft. There’s an underground network planning an attack on London – that’s all we know.” That was what I'd missed, what I'd failed to recreate on my own, or with Molly ( _trains?_ ). The effortless extension of my own thoughts, the light bounced back to me and amplified, a funhouse mirror that pushed my perspective just slightly- _there_. For the first time that day, I felt centered, and my spine snapped straighter as I pivoted on my heel, spreading my hands at the wall in one graceful motion. It felt _good_.

“These are my _rats_ , John.”

He shifted. “Rats?”

_Yes._

“My markers: agents, low-lifes, people who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded. If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something’s up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally, but the sixth ...”

John, syncing with me again, stepped right into my pause.

“I know him, don’t I?”

_God yes._

I wanted to laugh, to dance, to be doing _nothing except_ exactly _what I was doing right now_ , feeling as though I was rediscovering a limb I'd been having phantom pains in for what seemed an interminably long interval. I was reunited with my conductor of light, effortlessly turning that merciless light _away_ from where it had been pointed inward, freeing me from having to _think about what I thought_ , allowing me to just _think_. Blessedly empty; thinking-as-action; nothing more than a set of senses and a machine to process those observations.

I swooped toward my computer to show John the footage from the Tube, and thus we began our dance. In less than two hours, I'd gotten farther than I had in the previous _week_ , and when my phone chimed, I felt a thrill- everything was about to come into perfect alignment. I began to speak breathlessly, walking forward, backward, John leaning towards me, then away, his gaze on me. Always on me. Unconsciously echoing my gestures. I needed-

_All the maps_

I brought up a video chat with Howard, trying to find what I knew had to be there, the clock was ticking, and _I had John..._

I said with finality, “Right underneath the palace of Westminster.”

John was staring at the screen. “What's down there, then...a...a bomb?”

_Could be dangerous_

I grabbed my coat, shoved a few things in the pockets and began stomping down the stairs. John, caught up in our dance, frantically grabbed his coat as well and scrambled out after me. As if he could do otherwise.

The perfect peace offering: let's ( _have_ _dinner_ ) save London.

* * *

As we walked briskly down the whitely illuminated corridor towards the access panels leading to the Sumatra Road station, John muttered, “So, it's a bomb then.” He sounded positively revitalized. 

What I knew: there was an abandoned train compartment somewhere along the tracks below, containing an explosive device. It would be strategically placed to do the maximum amount of damage to the Palace of Westminster. I'd sent a text to Mycroft earlier, but he'd need a bit of time to mobilize a force to take care of the problem on all fronts at once. He knew I planned to go myself to find the bomb, and activate the kill switch. Lord Moran was no Moriarty, after all; this explosion was meant to be as massive as possible, rather than intended as a fashion statement, or appear to be a caused by a gas leak. Nothing  _ innovative _ -reliable methods make good terrorists, and these weren't amateurs. It would be at least another hour before the building would be full enough for the bomb detonation to achieve its purpose. No reason not to take John along, to finish our dance with the thrilling culmination he'd come to expect from our little excursions. 

What I said: “Must be.”

Then John reached into his pocket for his phone. I glanced at him hard, grumbling, “What are you doing?”

He replied, “Calling the police.” 

When had he begun to care about that sort of thing? I didn't believe actually did. Not really. Time to break him of bad habits he'd apparently picked up while I was away.

“What?” I barked. “No!”

He continued weakly, “Sherlock, this isn’t a game. They need to evacuate Parliament.”

_ Not a game? This is  _ The  _ Game, John. You love to play _ . 

Walking even more quickly, I looked straight ahead and replied in the same stern tone, “They’ll get in the way. They always do. This is cleaner, more efficient.” I stopped myself from smiling as the phone went right back into his pocket at my words.

We'd arrived at the maintenance entrance. I pulled out the prybar I'd stowed in the capacious pocket of my coat.  I inserted it into the locking mechanism, and I heard John mutter, “..and  _ illegal _ .” Then I had to glance toward him, to fill my eyes with the sight of him before replying, “a bit,” as I quickly applied pressure to open the doors and lead him where he wanted to go. Into the darkness and danger, with me. Always with me.

Once we'd slipped inside, I'd handed him the second torch I'd brought and we made our way down toward the tunnels. As we got further in (it was taking slightly longer than I'd anticipated), I heard John slowing behind me, saw the glow of his phone hitting the wall of the passageway. Without looking, I tossed back another, “What are you doing?” which was a rhetorical question at this point. He replied quickly, “Nothing!” and the glow disappeared. I led and he followed; he couldn't help himself. 

Once we got the the circular stairs, the lights that had been placed at intervals along the corridors were not in evidence here, and very little ambient light was present otherwise. Almost none. The odor of old rust, machining oil, stagnant water somewhere ahead, and dust permeated the journey downwards. We depended on the torches to set our feet properly...this was all taking a great deal of effort and time was slipping away. Some of the stairs were actually ladders, and after that, another corridor finally led to the station under the surface that had never been opened to the public.

When we got there the missing carriage was nowhere to be seen. I stopped dead, muttered, “I don't understand”; John's needling reply ( _ that's a first _ ) encouraged me to speak aloud. “There's nowhere else it could be,” I opined, then closed my eyes to facilitate envisioning where exactly the point of  _ maximum damage _ I'd already postulated would be, precisely. After a few moments of calculating the trajectory of not only the heat but sufficient oxygen-Oh! yes, _ there _ . I jumped down off the platform and began to walk along the tracks.

John balked a bit, but he followed. He  _ had _ to, now. But more than that, there was nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing right now than this. Walking with me right up to death's door and hammering on it with angry fists. After all, what else did he have? His commute from conveniently located flat to work, to become  _ Doctor _ Watson, hernia detective? Sleep in cold sweats, waking to memories of war and lives that went unsaved, bleeding out through his shaking fingers? 

John was talking at my back, “This way? Are you sure?” My half aware reply was just an echo of his last word, “ _ sure _ ,” as I stepped forward carefully but intently, holding my torch to illuminate what I knew was about to appear in my line of sight. He hurried up to stride beside me, his breath coming faster than the exertion could account for; the same way my heart was hammering, beginning to anticipate more challenges... and the knowledge that after this, John would certainly forgive me.  _ We _ would be back, doing this forever, because we were the same, and  _ what else could there be _ ?

There. The train car. Now to find the bomb, but not too quickly. John needed a show. I looked up, _ there _ , and pointed my torch upwards. John murmured right on cue, “demolition charges,” and as we continued to approach the car, he let his breath out in a subvocal, almost-shuddering,  _ ooh _ . As we crept inside, I began to breathe heavily as well, walking carefully, aiming my torch around the compartment, but not seeing much right away. Adrenaline was starting to make my heart pound even harder, and John and I had both parted our lips to pant lightly through already-dry mouths. 

Just as John said in an admirably steady voice, “It's empty. There's nothing...” I spotted the wires running along the walls of the compartment. They went...yes,  _ there _ , and as I peeled up the cushion to one of the seats, I turned to John, who'd turned his torch on my face, rather than than what was under my hands. Perfect. I huffed through my already-parted lips, “This _ is _ the bomb.”

“What?” He came closer. I finished pulling up the seat and continued, “It’s not  _ carrying _ explosives. The whole compartment  _ is _ the bomb.” The car filled with the sound of our panting breaths, ripping fabric, and my blood pounding in my ears as I continued to search for something to house the kill switch, the motherboard, the device that would  _ detonate _ this mess. I needed to be able to view the whole at once, not just what was in the torch beam, to be able to  _ see _ -I stepped on the floor panel, and it gave under my foot. I tapped at it a bit, realising what I was looking for was almost certainly under it.

I pried it up to reveal a device that looked completely alien to almost everything I'd seen and categorized as “a bomb”, and immediately tried to think of analogs I could infer between what I was actually  _ seeing _ and what I knew about kill switches. At the sight, John began his lovely  _ ohh _ , again, and I knew that this would be worth it. I'd promised him death, and to snatch him back from it at the last second. Like when I'd pulled him from the fire, but better. He certainly  _ smelled _ better to me now in the close compartment, adrenaline-laced sweat winning the battle with his deodorant, his breath panting, but milky and neutral. He wasn't  _ drugged _ now, the only chemical enhancements the ones his body was making for him when faced with this situation, faced with  _ me _ .

_ Trusting _ me.

Believing in Sherlock Holmes. Wasn't that  _ enough _ ?

( _ But what if I'm not-what if I wasn't- _ )

Had he grieved for me? Or...for  _ this _ ? Was there a difference?

My heart ( _ what? Impossible- _ ) cracked in half when I considered that this perfect moment had to end. Why couldn't we stay there forever? Why did we have to go on to  _ do _ other things,  _ become _ other people...

_ Maybe we don't. _

John looked down at the bomb, then up at me, grimacing, “We need bomb disposal.”  
I replied numbly, “There may not be time for that now.”  
His mouth hung open, revealing the slightly crooked tooth in his lower jaw, lip glistening where he'd licked it nervously. He breathed, “So, what do we do?”  
My eyes darted around the compartment, but I wasn't really thinking about finding the kill switch.

“I have no idea.”  
John still believed in me. He thought I could do anything. As if his faith in my granted me omniscience. And I... I needed this. And if I did, then so must John. He barked, “Well, think of something.”  
But what if I wasn't... _ we _ weren't... _ this _ ? Would that still be  _ enough _ ?

“Why d’you think  _ I _ know what to do?” I argued.  
He snorted, “Because you’re  _ Sherlock Holmes _ . You’re as clever as it gets.”

“Doesn’t mean I know how to defuse a  _ giant bomb _ . What about you?” I sneered.  
“I wasn’t in bomb disposal. I’m a bloody doctor.”  
I pointed the torch at his face angrily, remarking pointedly, “And a _ soldier _ , as you keep reminding us all.”  
John looked down at the timer, which had read 2:30 since we'd unearthed it. “Can’t...can’t we rip the timer off, or something?”  
I guffawed, “That would set it off.” No clue if that's true, actually. It might not have made any difference at all.  
John urged, “You see? You _ know _ things.”  
I turned away, disgusted. He always thought I could fix up everything immediately, defeat every challenge. Even _ death _ , even that...for him. And for Mrs. Hudson, who'd fed me up, kept my home. For Lestrade, who valued my work, and had hugged me too tightly, let me pick his pockets for cigarettes and other useful items.   


Suddenly, the lights came on with a whirring noise in the Tube carriage, and the timer on the bomb began to count down. I'd allowed myself to become terribly distracted. Dangerously so, in fact, but I wasn't sure I cared anymore. What if we _did_ die? Would he say it then ( _what?-_ )  
John began to hyperventilate and gasped, “My God!”

I was trying to think, but I also was trying to... _think_. I made a few stupid noises.  
John turned about, said breathlessly, “Why didn’t you call the police?”  
I paced, put my hand over my mouth. “Please just ...”  
“Why do you _never_ call the police?” John cried furiously.  
I waved my hand at him. “Well, it’s no use now.”

If we  _ were _ going to die, then. What would John say to me? What would he do?

I stared at him raggedly while he shouted, “So you  _ can’t _ switch the bomb off? You  _ can’t _ switch the bomb off and you didn’t call the police.”  
_ (what would I do? Save him like I always-) _   
I pointed away. “Go, John. Go now.”  
He bit out, “There’s no _ point _ now, is there, because there’s not enough time to get away; and if we don’t do this, other people will  _ die _ !” 

Then, of all the daft things, he pointed at me and shouted, “ Mind Palace! ” 

Breathing heavily, he urged, “Use your Mind Palace.”  
“How will _that_ help?” I demanded.  
He flung his hand at me. “You’ve salted away every fact under the sun!”  
“Oh, and you think I’ve just got _How To Defuse A Bomb_ tucked away in there somewhere?” I hollered, gesticulating wildly.  
“ _Yes!”_

_ I _ looked at him, so sure I really could just  _ forget _ that I knew how to defuse a bomb. That somehow, I must know everything. Was he thinking  _ please god, please let me live _ yet? 

I looked at him haggardly. “Maybe.”

Shutting my eyes, I put my hands to my head and rocked back and forth, pacing, groaning. Which was I what I felt like doing, anyhow. Maybe we should just die here, together. Why was he  _ so fucking sure _ I could get us out of this? He had believed I would kill  _ myself _ , but not him. Never him. Why could he believe I didn't know the earth went around the sun, but was so assured I knew something that would prevent our imminent fate of being blown to bits, along with several hundred other people? This was like being underwater, struggling for air when there was no air to be had. What if I just gulped in water? If we were really going to die in truth together here, would John forgive me for leaving before? Would John Watson love me again? Would he  _ say _ it?

_ When had this stopped being fun? _

With a shout, I tore my hands away from my twisted face and just stared at John blankly. 

He gaped at me. “Oh my god.”

I pulled my scarf from my neck frantically, feeling strangled by it. I panted, vocalizing, and  _ I didn't know what I wanted to happen _ . 

“This is it,” John said incredulously, turning and walking away a step or two. 

After a lifetime of provoking people and getting reactions, I didn't know what I wanted from someone else, or what I was going to do about it. 

And that's when I remembered that if I didn't take care of that kill switch  _ right now _ , neither one of us was ever going to find out. I dropped down immediately, scrambling to finish making a full account of the device under the floor in the tube car before I panicked completely, or somehow blew us to hell in spite of myself. My hands flapped at the device, and I heard myself panting, “Uh...uh,” as I scanned it for what I was looking for...a  _ something _ , a depression, a button, a... _ oh my god _ . “Turn this off,” I muttered, as incredulously flicked the knobby switch, like an old-fashioned lamp switch, of all things, sticking out of the side of the device. 

A rush of light filled my head, and I hung it heavily, waiting for it to pass. For a moment I wondered if I'd maybe somehow managed to detonate the damned thing instead, before I heard myself murmur, “oh, god,” softly, my own voice sounding like something from another dimension. As my vision cleared, I realized I hadn't been behaving at all like myself for this entire venture. I turned my head up to look at John, who'd apparently been staring intently at my flailing and grunting, as I-

_ I had nearly fucking blown us up. On purpose. _

I had spent most of my life assuring myself I felt nothing. Was  _ capable _ of feeling nothing. Other than interest, or boredom. I would never allow sentiment to affect my decisions, to ride me where it willed as it did everyone around me,  _ ordinary _ people.

And in that moment, I knew  _ without a doubt _ that in my willful ignorance, sentiment  _ had _ been riding me without my knowledge for years. Decades. I had allowed what I felt, my whims and fancies, my tantrums and desires, to rule me completely for every moment John and I had spent together. All I'd managed by assuring myself I could _ feel nothing  _ just by wishing it so, was to ensure I remained completely ignorant of myself in every way that mattered. I'd polished my intellect and left everything else to rust and ruin, putting the finest tools in the hands of a capricious, ignorant monster. 

And in this state, I'd nearly murdered myself and the person I loved most in the world, because I was so angry that  _ I didn't know how to be his friend _ . I didn't know how to love anyone. And what we had had before...the way we had been together, that was over, wasn't it? 

I stared up at him in disbelief from where I still knelt on the floor, and said the only thing I could think of. My mouth hanging open, I gasped, “I'm sorry.”

John screwed his eyes shut, tilting his head back on his neck, and sharply whispered, “what?”

Tears were forming in my eyes, but I felt too debased already to care. My voice shook. “I can’t... I can’t do it, John,” I barely managed to whisper. “I don’t know how.”

I straightened on my knees, gazing up at him. “Forgive me,” I demanded.

“ _What_?”  
After all this, maybe it was just too much, but I needed to hear it. I put my hands together and tried again, “Please, John, forgive me ... for all the hurt that I caused you.”  
He thought I wasn't serious. He replied angrily, “No, no, no, no, no, no. This is a trick.”  
I looked down, shaking my head. “No.”  
He was almost smiling. “Another one of your bloody tricks. You’re just trying to make me say something nice.”  
I laughed a bit at that, remembering the restaurant (and a few of the times I'd drugged him), and pleaded softly, “Not this time.”  
John choked out, “It’s just to make you look good even though you behaved like ...”  
He sniffed loudly, turning away. I tried to steady myself on a handrail, but I couldn't get to my feet. I felt much like the second of the seven times I'd almost died in truth, when somewhere near the Montenegro border, I'd gone through a window and assumed I was unscathed. Instead, I'd almost fainted from blood loss after having run a mile, never noticing that a razor sharp piece of glass had buried itself in my shoulder, and I'd almost bled out on my feet, having never felt the pain. Just the mortal cold in my bones after so much lost.  
John stamped his foot and hissed, “ _I wanted you not to be dead._ ”  
I groaned out, “Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for.”  
John sighed and turned away, resignation and...fear?...on his face.

_ Fear? _

And that's when I realised something else.

_He still thought we were going to die._ He hadn't seen the ridiculous switch, hadn't noticed I'd already disarmed the damned bomb. My own voice came back to me: _you see, but you do not observe_. This entire time...he still believed _we were about to be blown up_ , and _this_ is what he had to say to me? I'd never been so sincere in my life, I was right there in front of him, practically prostrate, I was _begging on my knees_ for forgiveness, and all he had for me was _I wanted you not to be dead?_

I groaned softly. There it was, after having run all that way, bleeding and never knowing it. Seeing the glass, finally feeling it. _The pain_. He thought this was all a trick, a ruse to manipulate him. He trusted my intellect, but never my intent. Well. If that was what he wanted, he could have one.  I was crying now. Had been for some time. In front of a man who couldn't tell true tears from false, after everything we'd been to each other. Been through together, what we'd _done_ to each other. I sobbed out my pain in truth, but the words were false. Or were they? We'd find out. At least we had a chance, now.

I said raggedly, “If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there and ... you’d still have a future ... with Mary.”  
He pointed accusingly at me. “Yeah. I know.”  
He turned away again, and shook with despair. I ground my fist against my lips to prevent myself from keening, scrubbed at my face. He turned back to me.  
“Look, I find it difficult. I find it difficult, this sort of stuff,” he said in a choked whisper.  
“I know,” I muttered bitterly.

  
And just like that, the bastard surprised me again. I wanted him to surprise me so badly, even here and now. Especially now. “You were the best and the wisest man...that I have ever known,” he whispered fiercely, emotion breaking through the stone face of John-the-soldier. John-the-doctor, who'd cooked for me, fetched the paper, listened to my violin at three in the morning, who'd cared for me when I was ill and when I wasn't, repeated the words he'd spoken to my grave. 

  
I stared at him, gaping, tears running nakedly down my face.  
He gazed at me hard, meeting my eyes, and rasped, “Yes, of _course_ I forgive you.”

Molly had been right.

John Watson, who had never stopped loving me, took a deep breath, tilted back his head, and braced himself for death.

* * *

 


	6. An Emerging Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s different – so what? Why would he mind?_  
>  [note-this chapter contains detailed description of drug use]

* * *

I was elated.

I was a mess.

A mental image flashed at me, the two of us rolling around inside a giant bomb, fighting like schoolboys ( _lovers_ ), and I was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, which should be quite enough for anybody. It should be enough for me. And John, too. _At least we hadn't pulled each other's hair._

My shoulders were shaking, and suddenly I was laughing.

Not something that would have occurred to me otherwise, but I decided to go with it.

John thought I was sobbing, that we were still about to be blown to hell, before I sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, and laughed louder. I don't think I could have stopped it at that point. Confused, he looked down at the timer, flickering and frozen by turns, like he'd seen a ghost. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I finally found my legs, tears still pouring out as I stood, and shakily pointed a finger at him, quavering out, “Oh, your _face_!”  
John was aghast, doing his best to set me on fire through telekinesis. It made me laugh even harder.

“You… _utter_...”  
“Your _face!_ ” I bellowed hysterically.  
He wast still gobbling, “You ...”  
I grinned and proclaimed, “I _totally_ had you.”  
He was furious. And relieved. And he had never stopped loving me.

“You _cock_!” he bellowed. “I knew it! I knew it! You _fff-_ ”  
I was cackling, interrupting him. “Oh, those things you said – such sweet things! I-I never knew you _cared._ ”  
He found another glare from somewhere and shot it at me, with “I _will_ kill you if you ever breathe a word of this-”  
I wheezed over him, holding up my fingers in a slapdash salute. “Scout’s honour.”  
He was doing his best to work himself into a lather, not even pausing. ”-to _anyone_. You _KNEW!_ You knew how to turn it off!”  
I squatted down, sobering only slightly, and indicated the ridiculously knobby switch protruding from the side of the device that he'd somehow failed to see. I looked up and him and deadpanned, “There’s an off switch.”  
“What?”  
“There’s _always_ an off switch,” I informed him. “Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there’s an off switch.”  
John closed his eyes and whispered tightly, “So _why_ did you let me go through all that?”  
_Why_ again. He always wants to know why. Sidestep that. “I didn’t lie altogether,” I allowed. “I’ve absolutely _no_ idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off.”

_Truer than I'd like_ , I thought, still giggling, wiping tears and snot ( _good god, had I no self-control left?_ ) from my face.  
I saw a torch beam cut through one of the windows in the tube carriage; Mycroft's cavalry had arrived. I gave a mental groan. Mycroft, the absolute _last_ person I wanted to see or speak to at that moment.

I considered that as John pointed towards them, sighing, “And you _did_ call the police.”  
Close enough. “ ’ _Course_ I called the police.”  
Sherlock Holmes, paragon of retroactive foresight.

He turned away, shaking his head. “I’m definitely gonna kill you.”  
I chuckled sarcastically, “Oh, _please_ , killing me? That’s _so_ two years ago.”

I smiled and shot a challenging look up at him through my lashes, and then...yes, good. He stared to laugh as well, shaking his head at what apparently seemed to him to be the most ridiculous, infuriating, impossibly _endearing_ man he'd even known. I hadn't disappointed, then.

I started toward the front of the compartment, as the last of the adrenaline fell away, leaving only the dopamine spike at how unexpectedly rewarding this venture had been. On impulse, I turned back to John knowing that _chemically_ at least, he felt the same. He jolted as if struck when my eyes locked onto his and I whispered, “Let's get out of here.”

Besides, I truly did not relish the thought of being debriefed by Mycroft with my face still looking as though I'd been through the wars.

“What?” he mumbled ineffectively.

Enough of that. I grabbed his sleeve, rushed to the door in the rear of the carriage, laughed out, “Let's _run_!”, and pulled us back down between the dangerously live tracks. I cut my eyes down to make sure he was steady enough not to blunder right into them, and then let go and started jogging away at a good pace. Catching up to me, John whispered, “Sherlock, why are we running? What's wrong?”

“Do _you_ want to explain yourself to them?” I huffed, scrambling up onto the platform we'd come down from originally, what seemed like hours ago. I turned to haul up my short doctor, grunting quietly. Escaping the scene of our tiff and our triumph, giggling like schoolboys, was exactly what the limbic system craved after so much hysterical nonsense. Mycroft's people weren't complete idiots, but they were constrained by reasonable precautions in pursuing _two_ unknown men, when they'd been told to expect only one. And of course, there was the giant bomb they'd been sent to account for.

Nonetheless, I began to hear faint indications of pursuit as we reached the ladder up to the circular stairs. John was reaching for his torch, and I grabbed his pocket with his hand inside where it rummaged, meeting his eyes with a terse shake of my head. Then I started up the ladder, John practically at my heels.

By the time we managed to get to the very top of the circular staircase, I heard Mycroft's henchmen at about halfway up, rustling against the steel, and I started down one of the darkest portions of the series of tunnels. In the stretch before the installed lights for maintenance would appear again, I'd grabbed John's sleeve again when- _what was that?_ -a tiny scuffle, of course he'd have sent in _another_ team in the way _I'd come in_ and I pulled John along the wall, who mercifully remained silent. I suppose he _was_ a soldier, after all.

The sounds of the team coming from the direction of the maintenance panel we'd entered at was still a good ways away when suddenly, the wall to my back I'd been sliding along disappeared, my foot slipped and I was falling, _we_ were falling; I took a knock on the head and then we rolled to a stop against what felt like a metal panel, or door. We were both partially wedged in a crack at the bottom of an incline covered in chips of concrete, bits of rusty metal, and what was most likely food wrappers chucked down it by workers; wedged against each other, as well. “Fuck,” John muttered under his breath, breathing heavily but quietly, as was I. The only thing keeping us from lying completely on top of each other like chips in a basket was John's knee against my thigh, keeping him slightly higher up the gritty slope, and wedging me down further into the gap at the bottom between the slope and the metal panel. It was in the process of leaving what I was sure would be quite a spectacular bruise, later.

At least, that's what I ascertained from what I smelled and felt, being in complete and utter darkness.

The team from the maintenance entrance was coming closer, and I watched a few torch beams flicker towards the gap in the wall, but the crack at the bottom of the slope where John and I had fallen wasn't apparent from where they were. They passed us, and then I heard them meet with the pursuers from the direction of the stairs. A bit of mumbled conversation, then they all headed back toward the maintenance entrance that led out into the Tube station. As they all approached together, I found myself mildly curious about something, and reached my arm slowly around John to feel at the back of his belt, under his coat. Did he still have it, two years later? Had he brought it with him to see me this afternoon?

The moment my hand touched the gun, I felt his hand -with the overdeveloped muscle between thumb and forefinger I'd noted the moment I'd met John Watson, the _flexor pollicis brevis_ commonly bulging in medical professionals- take my wrist in its crushing grip. His knee ground into my leg even further for leverage. I groaned, and felt his other hand snake up immediately and clasp itself over my mouth. Even with his hand behind his own back like this, I knew I wouldn't be able to break a grip that could hold pressure for an hour or longer, even reaching into wounds to pinch together arteries when necessary, keeping a patient from bleeding out. He probably could have broken my wrist just by squeezing.

We listened as the group moved away, leaving us there in the dark to continue clearing the area. I'd have to have a talk with Mycroft about training his minions properly. But John wasn't letting me go. I shifted a bit, considering how uncomfortable the entire situation was, but he only tightened his hold on my wrist, moving our arms out to the side. “Checking to see if I still had the Sig, Sherlock?” he whispered, quietly enough that no echo bounced out towards the main tunnel. “Want me to shoot the police for you?” He hissed viciously. “I had it before _you_ , and I kept it with me after.” He crept up a bit, until I could feel his hot breath tickle the side of my neck. I heard a train shuddering its way through the dark, far away.

“Do you know how many times it ended up in my mouth?” he breathed into my ear, and my heart gave an excruciating lurch, before starting to hammer. “Hnnn,” I moaned softly into his hand. “Seven,” he whispered mercilessly, lips brushing the outer curve of my right ear. “The first time was sitting in my chair at Baker Street, after your funeral. The last time was a week after I met Mary,” he continued in that soft, dreamlike whisper.

“Do you know what stopped me from pulling the trigger, every time? The fact that you tried to convince me you were _a fake_ ,” he breathed in a rush. “I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. I've met _Mycroft_. And when...when I heard the news come out that _Richard Brook_ ,” he spat the name with vitriol, “...had been proved a liar, and you were the _hat_ detective again? I let myself hope. Or maybe, I just needed to keep the only person who knew you, really _knew_ what you are, alive,” he finished in a rush. “I wanted _you_ to be alive,” he choked out, “and you are. You _are_ ,” he mumbled, letting go of my mouth and my wrist, and sliding his hands under my coat as if to prove the veracity of my physical existence to himself, gravity taking him over the rest of the way into the hole I was more or less wedged into at that point. I grunted as his knee finally left the bruised spot on my thigh, then sighed, worked my wrist a moment, and wrapped my arms around him awkwardly. He just lay there, sobbing quite silently and shaking for a few minutes. Tears ran down my neck.

As I lay there in a hole under somewhere beneath London, with John Watson weeping on top of me, I felt strangely quiet inside. My head hurt where I'd knocked it in the fall, and my leg as well, but I didn't care. John had stopped shaking, and I asked quietly, “Are...are we okay now, John? I'm...” I searched for words, and came up with nothing, “...sorry,” I finished lamely. But it was fine. He sighed, and said, “Sherlock, all of this... _tonight_...you don't have to try so hard. Not everything has to be _life and death_.” I smiled, thinking of Mycroft's defeat at the operating table. He continued, starting to raise himself up a bit, “You're alive, and that's enough-” I turned my head and put my parted lips on his.

He tasted of salt, sweat, tears...stubble. _No bristly kisses for me._ He smelled like sweat and the Tube and Baker Street, but under that, other places. The clinic. An unfamiliar fabric softener. Another fragrance I didn't remember from the bathroom at the flat, some kind of soap. He didn't stop me, but he'd stopped breathing. Then he pulled away and sighed quietly, getting up, sliding precariously for a moment, until he was in a semi-sitting position, legs braced above me against the metal panel. He said in a remarkably even tone, “And you don't have to do that, either.”

“I know,” I replied softly, my voice reverberating in my chest.

“Are you going to lay in a hole all night?” he asked, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

I murmured, “I haven't decided yet,” making a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Will Mary be worried?” I considered aloud, thinking that it actually couldn't be later then 10 or 11pm, even now. “I like her, you know,” I continued, sharing this interesting fact as I thought of it.

“Of course you do,” he replied, “and of course _you_ already know she likes you. Anyone who could love _me_...” he trailed off. “No,” he finished, “she won't be worried. But I'm going to go home now, anyway.”

He found my hand in the rubble and squeezed it, then let it go and turned around to begin crawling up the slope. Bits of rubbish and metal slid down onto me, and he paused for a moment. “If you need me, just call, alright?” he said, and then continued to climb up until he was out of sight. I listened to his footsteps until they faded.

* * *

I didn't lay in the hole all night. Just another hour or so.

I hoped it had been long enough for Mycroft to leave me alone for the night, then made slow, painful purchase up the slope myself. Once I was back in the tunnel, I shook myself off and best I could, ruffled my hair a bit, getting most of the paper bits and loose dirt out of it. The bump on the head hadn't been very bad at all, although a small lump had formed on the lower left of the back of my head. I decided I'd had rather enough of the Tube for a while, so I made my way back to the surface and hailed a cab back to Baker Street.

On the drive, I thought about the kiss while I looked out the window (I hadn't wanted to in the _hole_ ; instead I'd solved one of the absurdly simple cold cases Lestrade had had sent to my flat a a day or two after I'd come back while I lie there), noting with a tinge of satisfaction that the Palace of Westminster remained unscathed. I'd never kissed anyone on the lips of my own volition in my life; a few had kissed _me_ , and it had seemed both intrusive and rather...unpleasant? Perhaps. Either way, I hadn't cared to encourage that sort of thing. Like Mycroft had said: _goldfish_. Sloppy goldfish kisses, forgotten thirty seconds after they ended.

And it's not as if anything like that had ever occurred to me when we lived together. Back when so many people had assumed....well. It's not as if they weren't right. I'd heard what Irene and John had had to say to each other years ago, and it had changed my behavior in some ways. I'd stopped putting things in his tea after that. _Well, mostly._ Not everything needs a name, and our relationship as it truly _was_ , or had been, was already far more socially unacceptable than the one strangers and acquaintances assigned...although it wasn't just them, was it? Mrs. Hudson, Gavin Lestrade, Sally Donovan...they knew John had dates, _girlfriends_ or something, but...well. Impossible to understand, and ultimately irrelevant. They knew there was only one relationship in John's life that _mattered_.

Once I arrived home, I threw some bills at the cabbie and opened the door to the flat, went up the stairs and in, looking around for any signs of a disturbance. Nothing, good. Restless, I stripped off my coat and then my clothes, thinking to take a bath.

_Irene didn't kiss like a goldfish._

I shook my head painfully against intrusive thoughts. _Memories._ The Woman's kisses were an invitation to war, one we both knew I'd already lost the moment I'd texted her back, before the sword fell. Like me, she lived for the Game; she never stopped playing, making high-risk challenges for high reward. Even at her own execution. On the way to the tarmac, towards arrangements I'd already made to get her as far away as possible, she'd kissed me, and breathed heavily from her nose into mine. I still wasn't sure if it had been a spice-laden promise, a threat, or if she merely wanted to return to the battlefield she'd already conquered and make a ballroom out of it, to dance at her leisure to the memory of her victory. Even so, I still couldn't bear the thought of a world _without_ Irene Adler in it, dancing her victories... somewhere else.

She'd had her kiss, but that was _all_ she would have from me.

Irritated, I took stock of the damage from the fall in the tunnels. The bruise on my anterior right thigh from John's knee falling against me was at least as colourful as I'd anticipated, even a bit grotesque. What my complexion saved me in scar tissue, it made up for in a superfluous spectrum of subdermal haemorrhages. I'd collected a few scrapes as well as the knock on the head, but overall wasn't in very bad shape at all-my tetanus was up to date, so no concerns there. I headed to the bathroom.

But when I got there, I found myself closing the door, washing my hands thoroughly, then running my hands along the sink, around the mirror, under the taps on sink and tub, checking for Mycroft's tiny cameras. Nothing again. I rewashed my hands and forearms. Satisfied for now, I took a small folding knife from the top of the medicine chest, and squatted down to the section of tiles that had been replaced, and jammed the knife between two of them, prying one up. I kept everything I could term as _my works_ (a private half-smile for that) in an antique American ammunition cartridge tin, being just the proper size to fit in this space. Besides, I liked its dull patina, and how everything fit _just so_ inside of it.

I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and set the box in my lap (what there was of it; two narrow thighs, one a brilliant black and blue, make for a bit of a balancing act), and opened it to reveal insulin needles in their sterile packets I'd pinched from Saint Bart's Hospital some time ago, empty sterile syringes, 70% alcohol preparatory wipes or _preps_ , as well as the morphine I'd stolen the night of the bonfire, wrapped in a clean, white cloth.

I quickly but carefully went through the motions of transferring a portion of morphine from one syringe to another, being careful not to contaminate anything, sterile wrappers rustling off, and affixed the tiny needle to the small dose of morphine in the new syringe. A skin pop would be just fine now, and I prepped a likely spot on my forearm with alcohol, pulled the cap, and slid the 27-gauge needle just under the skin. I would have several minutes before I felt it, the drug finding its way towards the capillary system before hitting my bloodstream in truth, which would give me time to finish up.

Setting the used syringe on the edge of the sink, I pressed my thumb to the spot I had injected carefully, sealing off the almost-nonexistent bleeding but making sure not to create more bruising from the subdermal injection. Opening the medicine chest- _there_ -I grabbed the box of nicotine patches, which I'd found in yet another box of my things that I could only assume Lestrade had had collected from Scotland Yard and brought here during my...hiatus. I got one out and opened it, placing it directly over the spot I'd slowly injected, the time spent made worth it by not causing unnecessary bruising that might creep past the edges of the patch.

Not even Mycroft had ever thought to look under them, even when I had three or more in place at once. Habitual eccentricity had its rewards.

I suppose I could have just stooped to going between my toes with it, but I'd seen Mycroft glancing at my feet a few times he'd _dropped by_ the flat, and besides, it was so...stereotypical. Placing a nicotine patch over broken skin also sped up and increased the absorption rate, negating the need for multiple patches, as well as canceling out the drowsiness that sometimes accompanied the euphoric effects of the morphine. I wasn't feeling especially sleepy, and I was beginning to want that bath I'd planned on taking a bit keenly. The smell of old rust from laying in the hole had clung even under my clothing, and it was reminding me a bit sickly of that bloody run near the Montenegro border, the metallic tang I'd failed to recognise for what it was; a failure that had nearly ended me.

I quickly wrapped up my supplies, shut the ammunition tin and stowed it carefully back under the tile, the edge indistinguishable along the larger seam of replaced, slightly newer and less-worn tiles. Standing back up, I swayed ever-so-slightly, and quickly lifted the toilet lid, capped the needle, and gracefully broke it off the syringe and dropped it into the toilet, flushing it. I pulled the plunger, broke that, as well as the outside of the syringe, snapping each into pieces to follow the needle, staring down as they swirled away. Mycroft could send his gormless minions into the sewers to play duck-apple, if he cared to. I closed the lid.

I sauntered loosely over to the tub and ran the taps, thinking of apples, the time John had accidentally crushed one he'd been holding when I'd had a bit of an explosion at the kitchen table one afternoon, juice dripping as he'd flung the pulpy mess at me in retaliation. I'd been pleased to see my estimation of his grip strength had been appropriate. Mrs. Hudson'd had an apoplexy at finding bits of apple on the ceiling, later, although I was in a state over my second-best red dressing gown spattered with fruit effluvia at the time. My amusement ended when I thought of another apple, one Moriarty had carved up in my flat the day of his visit, the one I'd uselessly puzzled over for hours, trying to find some meaning in it. Worthless. Waste of time.

_I. O. U._

I turned away from the tub to the cupboard, and those uncomfortable thoughts slipped away easily under the chemical euphoria that was slowly increasing as I meandered about the bathroom. I rummaged a bit, and found a bottle of liquid soap, some kind of bath frippery, and I opened the bottle and gave it a sniff. Approving, I poured some into the tub, blasting out the smell of old rust unless I turned my head quickly, the scent still permeating my hair. _Eugh_.

I slipped a bit getting into the bath, my head ducking under the water and the massive froth of bubbles that had formed from the soap, and when my head emerged, I dumped a bit more of the soap on my hair, to get rid of that sickening smell. I'd regret it later-washing my hair with soap meant an unmanageable fluff to deal with the next day, but I'd just have to comb some product in carefully and not touch it for several hours while it dried _just so_.

I'd wet the nicotine patch too, damned thing. It could stay put for a time while wet, but if the edges began to lift... At that, I finished up in a rush and patted myself dry carefully, throwing down a few towels on the floor to sop up the mess, and opened the glass door into my bedroom in a rush of sweet-smelling steam.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wardrobe as I stumbled past, and stopped a moment to see what was to be seen. I hadn't filled in much since my return, which was no wonder considering how much I'd been staying awake, eating only when I remembered to, and generally burning calories by running all over London and falling down holes. If I'd had any Epsom salts in the flat, I would've dumped them in the bath as well to hopefully staunch some of the bruise spreading over my thigh, but instead the heat had just intensified the process. I smirked to myself a bit, thinking of how easily I'd taken up the habit of walking about nude at home, considering how buttoned-up I'd been when John lived here with me. _Although_ , I'd mused, _having a glass door between your bedroom and the shared bathroom doesn't exactly encourage privacy_. Overall, I thought I looked much better _in_ clothes than out of them. Especially considering that at that point, I positively _gangled_. My head seemed large, out of proportion.

Sighing resignedly, I stepped over to where I kept my things in their lighted shelves for display, rummaging in a side shelf for one of the packets of biscuits I'd nabbed from Mrs. Hudson's flat a day or so previous. Once I started shoving them into my mouth, the sweetness of the chocolate overrode the mild nausea I was feeling from the drugs, and I'd eaten the entire packet standing there before I knew it. Opening the second, I admired and adjusted a few of my entomology displays, turning them this way and that to admire the iridescent sheen of a particular beetle's wing cases, pinned and dried behind the glass. Setting it down, I fondled an ancient Egyptian moulded scarab I'd palmed during the night at the National Antiques Museum years ago, a beetle-shaped amulet with a face stamped into the obverse, my thumb running over the worn features repeatedly. Sometimes I carried it with me in my coat pocket, shoving my hand in at intervals to worry at it. Something to do while teasing out a mental knot or two.

I'd finished the second packet by then, and glancing down, hurriedly brushed crumbs from where they'd caught in my pubic hair. I crossed _eating nude_ off the list of perks to living alone, and actually, it was a rather cool night in the late fall, and I went to the wardrobe to take out my second-best dressing gown and put it on, although I left it open. The middle floor didn't hold heat as well as the very top bedroom that had been John's but I also hadn't seen any reason whatsoever to go up there in the time since I'd been back. He'd made a habit of squirreling away food in there, considering what I'd habitually gotten up to in the refrigerator, and the kitchen in general, but there'd be no food to nick ( _or sprinkle with interesting compounds_ , I thought with a wince) up there anymore. An excruciatingly saccharine melancholy even sweeter than the biscuits I'd just binged on filled me, and commingled with the opiate euphoria. It was so delicious as to be nigh-unbearable, like a gentle explosion of expanding light in my chest. My eyelids fluttered, and I-

Two rooms away, my phone went off. A _call_. I glanced at the bedside alarm clock: 3:22 AM.

_Bugger_ , I thought, heading toward it. Had I missed a camera? Surely, I'd been careful enough. Rummaging into the pile of my smelly, discarded clothes, I brought out my phone and didn't have to check the screen to know it would be Mycroft. I poked at it to answer the call impatiently.

“ _What_ ,” I barked.

“Good _evening_ , Brother Mine. Enjoying the hole, are we?”

I pursed my lips at the missed opportunity to lecture Mycroft on lax training of his henchpeople. But apparently his people had missed my subsequent emergence? Either way, I was a bit relieved, although it wouldn't do to let on.

“I've been home for _ages_ , Mycroft. Now what. Do you. _Want_?” I mumbled through gritted teeth.

“Party at _your_ place in the morning, brother. Expect the press. I've invited Greg, Molly and her... _thing_ , John and Mary of course, unless you've added _consulting homewrecker_ to your resume tonight? All manner of things can happen in the dark, even to _you_ ,” he said primly.

My eyes flew open in outrage, and I opened my mouth to begin cursing, when suddenly, I grinned like a cat instead. “Have fun at _Le Mis_ , Mycroft, I'm sure Mummy will want to explain _all_ of the details of the set design to you tomorrow. At _length_ ,” I whispered sadistically, pulling the phone away from my ear and preparing to ring off.

“Wait! _Sher_ lock-” I heard him bleating with real concern, just before I cut him off by pressing _end call_ , and finally giving in to my fit of pique, threw the phone as hard as I could into the sitting room wall, where it shattered just beside the fireplace. Mrs. Hudsons' broom handle hit the floor somewhere below me a minute later, as I stared into the cold hearth and wrapped my dressing gown around me irritably, shrugging. I'd have to talk to her about fires belonging in fireplaces tomorrow, then.

My hand flew up to my hair ( _still wet-good, very good_ ), and I tottered back to the bathroom to do product-and-combing that I'd forgotten about completely while stuffing my face with chocolate digestives. I wouldn't expect anyone before 7 in the morning at the earliest, so there'd be ample time for it to dry properly. I combed very carefully over the knot on my skull, thinking that I really needed to take more care in the future not to fall down holes...maybe even take a break from that sort of _legwork_ , as Mycroft coined it ( _the disgusting, scandal-fetishist_ pig), for just a while.

_There_ were _other things_ , I thought, gazing at my own odd face in the mirror, widening my eyes to check the pupils. I saw yawning black discs, and I considered for a moment what to do about that, since the method I'd used to dose myself would mostly likely keep me high for hours past when I expected my friends ( _friends, imagine that_ ) to show up. Then I watched a gentle smile steal over my features. Mycroft would be stuck at that abysmal show with Mummy for the entire afternoon. Lestrade was simple enough to distract, and John had never really believed I had _recreational activities_ to speak of, not really.

Going back to the bedroom, I took out a few of my laptops and set them on the bed, before going into a drawer for some pyjamas. It really was growing chilly in here with the heat from my bath dissipating, and I put my dressing gown back on over them. Finally, I got into the bed but remained sitting with my spine very straight, and started looking up topics for the next day.

I typed into one search bar:

_wedding planner_

And another, using a different search engine.

Flower arrangements

Three hours later, I got up to put the kettle on, and took out the press for coffee.

* * *

Hanging up on Mycroft the second time was even _more_ satisfying, I thought, turning to John as I finished buttoning my smartly tailored jacket.

“Come on, you'll have to go down, they're gonna want the story,” he said, beaming at me as he peeked into the doorway, rather admiring the effect as I had. I smiled back, and walked past him, murmuring, “In a minute,” not quite ready to rush down and face the shouted questions and flash photography. My hair had _floofed_ a bit more than I anticipated after the pains I'd belatedly taken, but I suppose one had to live with one's mistakes.

Going into the kitchen, I popped another bottle of the champagne Lestrade had brought, tilting it easily into a glass and setting it on the table, floating in the enjoyment of having a roomful of people here for the express purpose of being happy for me. Also, I was still high. Mary was sitting and _chatting_ with Mrs Hudson on the couch, underneath the wall still plastered with scraps and bits of the case I'd just solved, looking almost painfully beautiful with the early-afternoon light glowing on her pale blond hair.

She was glancing at her ring, saying, “...well once we actually _got_ engaged...” as John scoffed a short _yeah_ from the other side of the room. She drawled, “...we were a bit _interrupted_ last time,” giving me a rather arch look. I smiled at her warmly, pushing a glass toward her. I got up, her words following me, “You _will_ be there, Sherlock,” she proclaimed, as I turned back to her coyly.

“Weddings, not really my _thing_ ,” I sassed, then gave her a crass wink over my shoulder. I'd already spent half the morning explaining just how far in advance one must expect to order dyed carnations to match an overall color scheme, unless of course she were to choose a more natural arrangement instead, in which case-

_Oh._ Molly had arrived, presumably with her _thing_. I gazed out the window a moment, up at the incredible amount of sunlight beaming at the stoop, down over the crowd of journalists and photographers wanting to get the first word in with the miraculously resurrected Sherlock Holmes, the man who'd saved London from a giant bomb, and thought _yes, step out into the light. Finally. I've spent long enough down holes._

I stepped toward the door, remarking, “Ready?” at John, who replied “Ready,” with an easy, burbling enthusiasm. I took in a brief eyeful of Molly as I walked over, standing there proudly, with her- _Oh_. Even knowing better, I really did ponder the possibility that Molly's Thing.... _Tom?_ ...whatever....had actually raided my closet somehow in the night, considering the trousers, shoes, shirt collar, even the-yes, the scarf in a parisian knot.... then I glanced at John, who was drinking in my consternation with the kind of grinning, rapt fascination on his face I generally feel only at a truly perplexing murder scene. Wordlessly, I shook _Tom's_ hand and stepped past him to go down the stairs.

John followed and closed the door behind him. As I grabbed my scarf off the hook, he muttered impishly, “Did you...uh, did you...?” I didn't look at him as I muttered, “I'm not saying a word.” He looked back at the door and mused, “Best not,” as I looped my scarf around my neck in my accustomed....knot. _Ugh, puns,_ I thought, as John began to speak again.

“I'm still waiting,” he intoned quietly, looking up at me. Perplexed, I made a questioning noise, grateful for the four-inch height difference allowing some distance, even when we were jammed together on the narrow landing.

“Why did they try and kill me? If they knew _you_ were on to them, why go after _me_ – put _me_ in the bonfire?” he continued, as I grabbed my coat from its hook.

“I don't know,” I sighed heavily, turning to trot down the dim stairwell. “And I don't _like_ not knowing. Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat.”

I continued musing aloud as I shrugged into my coat, “I don’t know who was behind all this, but I _will_ find out, I promise you.”  
I watched John watch my back in the mirror as I preened.

He remarked, not unkindly, “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this.”  
I made another noncommittal noise.  
“Being back. Being a hero again,” he expanded.  
I scoffed, “Oh, don’t be stupid.”  
He was getting into it, now. “You’d have to be an idiot not to see it. You _love_ it.” I thrilled a bit internally to hear him savoring the words. No matter what darkened spaces we inhabited, he really did _see_ me.

  
I finally turned to him, face carefully neutral. “Love _what_?” I challenged, gazing up at him, _above_ me on the stairs for a change, glowing in that moment by a small beam of light coming in through the narrow windows over the door leading out to Baker Street.  
He closed the distance between us casually, progressively lower the closer he got but never looking down, staring into my eyes as he arrived at his accustomed place at my side. He had to look up now to keep eye contact.

“Being Sherlock Holmes,” he said archly. Proudly.  
How did he find the gall to do _this_ to me, right before having to go be _photographed_? I schooled my face into a frown, flippantly remarking, “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”  
I sniffed and walked away a bit from that penetrating stare, pulling on my gloves against what was surely a frigid day.

He wasn't done with me yet, though. He spoke from the bottom of the stairs, “Sherlock, you _are_ gonna tell me how you did it? _How_ you jumped off that building and survived?” His words jerked me up short. Damn him. _I led_ and _he followed_ , but....I had to stop when he stopped.  
“You know my methods, John,” I said softly, staring at the door with his gaze hot on the back of my head. “I am _known_ to be indestructible.”  
I glanced at him in the mirror again. He continued, hands clasped carefully behind his back.

“No, but seriously. When you were dead, I went to your grave.”  
I made a do of zipping something up. “I should hope so,” I replied casually.  
“I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you.”  
I couldn't take it anymore. I turned to face him.

“I know. I was _there_ ,” I said softly, begging him to stop with my eyes.  
“I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead.”  
We looked hungrily at each other across a few feet of space, the moment drawing out, stretching so thin I could practically hear it, shattering what illusions I had left and leaving me feeling oddly stripped. I'd done everything I could to forget John's broken voice at the grave, the two years I'd been gone. It had made what I'd had to do easier, somehow. But I never really _forget_ anything, no matter how much I want to.

Gazing into his worn, lovely face, I said the only thing I could think of.

“I heard you.”

We stood there like that, unable to end it, until I finally broke his gaze and drew in a sharper breath through my nose than I intended, before I clapped my hands together briskly and declared, “Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes.”

Feeling unsteady, I put my hand on the latch, then something caught my eye, and I stopped. Taking a step back, I remembered what John had said before (“... _you were_ _the_ hat _detective again_ ...”) and I took the ridiculous _death frisbee_ off its hook on the coat-stand. I smiled as I smashed _the hat_ John loved down over my auburn curls, which had proved to be more unruly that I'd anticipated in the mirror this morning. Loins thus girded, I opened the door.

The sun had lost the battle to overcast skies while we'd stood speaking quietly in in the stairwell, in the dark space between the party upstairs and the raging crowd on the stoop. But as I made my egress, hearing John on my heels grabbing the knocker and twisting it askew as he always did to close the door, I still felt illuminated.

I stepped from behind the clouds, giving my audience a glimpse of the merciless light they had come to bask in.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read this. Some people are very hard to understand, but they still have their reasons for doing what they do. That doesn't make them _good_ reasons, just like having reasons doesn't make them good _people_.   
>  I'll probably continue this for The Sign of Three. :)


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